AFTER 
TH I RTY 


JULIAN  STREET 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


AFTER  THIRTY 


BOOKS  BY  JULIAN  STREET 
ABROAD  AT  HOME 
AMERICAN  ADVENTURES 
THE  NEED  OF  CHANGE 

THE  MOST  INTERESTING  AMERICAN 
(A  close  range  study  of  Theodore 
Roosevelt) 

PARIS  A  LA  CARTE 

SHIP-BORED 

WELCOME  TO  OUR  CITY 

THE  GOLDFISH 
(For  children) 


"Aly  wife  is  coming  home' 


AFTER  THIRTY 


BY 

JULIAN  STREET 

AUTHOR  OF  "ABROAD  AT  HOME,"  "AMERICAN 

ADVENTURES,"  "THE  NEED  OF 

CHANGE,"  etc. 


NEW  YORK 
THE  CENTURY  CO. 

1919 


Copyright,  1919,  by 
THE  CENTUBY  Co. 


Copy  right,  1913,  by 
THB  MCCLURE  PUBLICATIONS,  INCORPORATBD 

Copyright,  1915,  1918,  1919,  by 
THE  CURTIS  PUBLISHING  COMPAKY 


Published,  August,  1919 


P5 

JJ37 


TO  MARY 


CONTENTS 


, CHAPTER 

I  THE  RAPIDS  OF  ROMANCE    . 

II  MRS.  RAILEY 

III  AT  THE  OLD  CAFE  MARTIN  . 

IV  WITH  FOLDED  WINGS    . 

V  THE  STIMULATING  MRS.  BARTON 

VI  MOONLIGHT  AND  SYRINGAS  . 

VII  IN  THE  FORMAL  GARDEN    . 

VIII  OLD  HIG 

IX  REENTER  JANIE  VAUGHN    . 

X  THE  STAGE  DOOR     .     .     .     . 

XI  JANIE  FINDS  A  COUNSELOR  . 

XII  WICKETT  WRITES  Two  LETTERS 

XIII  DINER  A  DEUX 

XIV  THE  REHEARSAL 

XV  A  VILLA  AT  LUGANO 

XVI  PROBABLY  PIQUE       .... 

XVII  THE  ENNOBLING  INFLUENCE    . 

XVIII  THE  MYSTIC 

XIX  IN  MAIDA'S  STUDIO  .... 


PACK 

3 

10 

24 

35 
46 

58 
66 

73 
79 
88 

97 
104 
109 

H5 
129 

137 
i43 
154 
162 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAOK 

XX    A  RECITAL 175 

XXI  MOLLY  CALLS  ON  MAIDA     ....   186 

XXII     MAIDA  DECIDES 197 

XXIII  THE  CHRISTMAS  TREE 202 

XXIV  SOUVENIRS       .........  215 

XXV    AFTER  FORTY 222 

XXVI    INSTINCT 238 

XXVII  A  BIRTHDAY  AND  REBELLION    .     .     .  246 

XXVIII    THE  MESSAGE 255 

XXIX    THE  RECOVERY 267 


AFTER  THIRTY 


AFTER  THIRTY 

CHAPTER  I 

THE    RAPIDS    OF   ROMANCE 

NO  matter  what  the  first  girl's  name  was. 
Enough  that  she  was  very  round  and  very 
pink,  that  her  bathing-cap  was  blue  with  black 
Valkyrie  wings  at  either  side,  and  that,  from  the 
hour  of  her  arrival  at  the  Seaview  Inn,  Shelley 
Wickett  perceived  a  new  romantic  beauty  in  the 
coast  of  Maine.  Every  afternoon  they  strolled  out 
to  the  point  and  watched  the  surf  come  smashing  in 
upon  the  rocks;  every  evening  at  the  club  they 
danced  his  collar  to  limpness;  every  morning  they 
played  tennis;  every  midday  they  swam  and  splat 
tered  in  the  sea.  Within  a  week  they  ceased  to  talk 
of  people  and  hotels  and  clothes  and  things  to  eat, 
and  got  along  to  Venice  and  the  stars  and  the  feel 
ing  of  "  having  known  each  other  always."  Then, 
one  day,  just  to  show  how  deep  and  true  her 

3 


AFTER  THIRTY 

friendship  for  him  had  become,  the  girl  came  up 
behind  him  in  the  surf  and  ducked  him. 

Purposely,  upon  the  following  day,  he  reached 
the  beach  a  little  late,  and  as  he  loped  down  the 
stretch  of  burning  sand  his  eyes  searched  the  margin 
of  the  sea  for  the  familiar  winged  bathing-cap. 
And  presently,  amid  the  swirling  suds  just  inside 
the  breaker-line,  he  sighted  it.  The  girl's  back  was 
toward  him.  He  hurried  into  the  water,  and,  com 
ing  within  reach  of  her  just  as  a  great  green  roller 
toppled  over,  pressed  a  hand  upon  her  damp,  delight 
ful  neck. 

Her  head  went  under  for  an  instant.  She  came 
up  a  disheveled  mermaid,  blowing,  dripping,  angry. 
And  she  had  a  right  to  be  angry,  for  she  had  never 
seen  Wickett  before. 

He  was  horror-stricken.  His  face  crimsoned  be 
neath  its  tan,  and  the  crimson  oozed  down  into  his 
neck  and  disappeared  beneath  his  bathing-suit.  He 
tried  to  tell  the  story  of  the  other  girl  and  the  other 
ducking  and  the  other  winged  cap,  and  because  he 
was  so  ashamed,  and  because  his  blurted  apologies 
were  so  pathetic,  and  because  he  was  so  amazingly 
good-looking,  her  heart  softened  toward  him.  She 
forgave  him.  And  when  she  actually  laughed 

4 


1HE  RAPIDS  OF  ROMANCE 

across  red  lips  and  small  white  teeth,  he  forgot  the 
other  girl  forever  and  became  Molly's  bondsman. 

That  was  her  name  —  Molly.  She  had  another 
name,  but  —  oh !  her  complexion  was  like  a  bunch 
of  pink  and  white  sweet-peas,  and  her  eyes  were  like 
a  pair  of  cornflowers,  and  her  ways  were  baffling 
beyond  belief.  You  never  knew  what  she  was 
thinking,  or  what  she  was  going  to  say.  She  was 
Mystery  personified.  Even  when  Wickett  asked  her 
to  become  his  wife  he  did  n't  know  what  she  was 
going  to  say  —  though  she  did.  So  in  about  a  year 
they  went  to  a  big  stone  church  which  was  full  of 
flowers  and  friends,  and  with  faithful  Archie  Hig- 
gins  helping,  as  best  man,  stood  up  before  a  minister 
who  could  intone  the  sense  out  of  any  service,  and 
were  married.  And,  being  in  the  middle  twenties, 
.\hey  continued,  for  several  years  thereafter,  to  seize 
every  opportunity  to  tell  about  their  romantic  meet 
ing  in  the  surf. 

Their  first  baby  was  called  Shelley  and  their  sec 
ond  was  called  Molly,  and  both  children  gurgled, 
and  looked  at  their  hands  and  feet,  and  teethed,  and 
proved  so  generally  engrossing  that  their  parents 
had  not  time  to  tell  the  story  of  the  ducking  so  often 
as  formerly  they  had.  Even  when  they  did  occa- 

5 


AFTER  THIRTY 

sionally  recall  it,  the  episode  seemed  vague  and  un 
real,  like  a  dream,  or  an  anecdote  about  a  boy  and 
girl  they  had  known  long,  long  ago.  The  world 
had  changed.  It  had  become  a  parents'  and  chil 
dren's  world  —  happy,  but  lacking  the  rainbow 
brilliance  with  which  their  lovers'  world  had  shone. 
For  it  is  a  truth  (an  annoying  truth,  which  people 
will  dispute  as  they  dispute  any  truth  unpleasing  to 
them)  that  children,  however  they  may  bind  their 
parents  together  with  ties  of  mutual  interest  and 
affection,  are  among  the  strongest  agencies  for  the 
destruction  of  young  dreams. 

Far  up  among  the  radiant  mountain-peaks  of 
Youth  bubbles  the  spring  of  Curiosity,  which,  trick 
ling  downward,  runs  into  the  Rapids  of  Romance. 
Your  couple,  embarking  in  the  matrimonial  canoe, 
shoot  these  rapids,  and  are  but  vaguely  conscious 
of  the  glory  of  the  scenery  that  flashes  by  on  either 
bank.  Presently  they  come  to  the  first  cataract 
—  the  birth  of  their  first  child  —  a  long  hard 
portage,  with  the  larger  portion  of  the  burden  on  the 
wife.  After  that  there  may  be  other  rapids,  but 
they  never  rush  so  swiftly.  With  each  succeeding 
cataract  the  stream  grows  calmer,  until  Romance 
has  been  left  far  behind  and  the  matrimonial  craft 

6 


THE  RAPIDS  OF  ROMANCE 

(if  it  has  not  capsized)  floats  placidly  upon  the 
sweet,  slow-flowing  River  of  Affection. 

It  was  on  this  peaceful  tide  that  Wickett  found 
himself  drifting  after  something  less  than  half  a 
dozen  years  of  married  life.  Devoted  to  his  wife 
and  children,  successful  in  business,  comfortable  in 
his  New  York  apartment  from  October  to  June,  and 
his  pleasant  country  home,  beside  the  golf  links, 
from  June  to  October,  he  had,  according  to  the 
standards  by  which  claims  upon  contentment  are 
usually  measured,  every  reason  to  be  satisfied  with 
life. 

Yet,  curiously,  as  time  passed,  he  found  himself 
often  dreaming  of  the  hills  and  rapids  left  behind, 
mourning  the  tingling  vividness  which  seemed  to 
have  departed  out  of  life,  tiring  of  the  changeless 
pastoral  panoramas  of  settled  domesticity,  made 
restless  by  the  monotonous  certainty  that  he  was 
able  to  foresee,  in  every  detail,  the  landscape  lying 
beyond  each  bend,  ahead.  And  the  more  he  thought 
he  knew  what  lay  ahead,  the  more  his  longing  eyes 
looked  back. 

Molly  seemed  to  have  changed.  She  was  as 
beautiful  as  ever,  indeed  more  beautiful  in  her  still 
youthful  maturity;  and  when,  now  and  then,  they 

7 


AFTER  THIRTY 

settled  down  to  a  discussion  of  some  subject  hold 
ing  strong  interest  for  them  both,  she  would  s 
him  flashes  of  the  keen  insight,  the  sane  philosophy, 
the  quick,  gentle  humor  which,  from  the  first,  he 
had  adored  in  her.  But  the  trouble  was,  they  did  n't 
fall  into  interesting  conversations,  now,  so  often  as 
they  used  to.  The  interesting  things,  the  charming 
things,  the  stimulating  abstractions  which  used  so 
often  to  engage  their  thoughts,  were  being  pushed 
aside,  more  and  more,  by  the  matter-of-fact  details 
of  every-day  life. 

Could  it  be,  he  wondered,  that  Molly  failed  to 
observe  this  gradual  change?  Or,  if  she  did  ob 
serve  it,  was  she  indifferent  —  would  she  be  content 
to  drift  and  doze  through  life,  sunned  by  her  do 
mesticity  and  motherhood?  Now  and  then  he 
made  an  effort  to  arouse  her,  to  speed  up  the  matri 
monial  craft,  but  though  sometimes  she  responded  to 
his  call,  too  often  she  did  not.  Too  often  it  seemed 
that  the  canoe  in  which  they  had  begun  their  cruise 
together  was  turning  into  a  canal-boat,  heavy  laden 
with  life's  commonplaces. 

From  the  deck  of  such  a  vessel  one  has  leisure  in 
which  to  look  about.  Wickett's  eyes  began  to  rove 

8 


THE  RAPIDS  OF  ROMANCE 

a  little.  And  then,  for  the  first  time  since  the  com 
mencement  of  their  voyage,  he  noticed  that  a  hand 
kerchief  was  being  fluttered  at  him,  as  in  flirtatious 
signal  from  the  shore. 


CHAPTER  II 

MRS.    RAILEY 

HE  met  Mrs.  Railey  at  a  dinner  party.  She 
was  picturesque:  a  slender  figure  with  fair 
skin  and  very  black  hair;  and  her  robe  of  black 
velvet  —  fabric  most  admired  by  men  —  suggested 
to  Wickett  a  jewel  casket,  encasing  yet  displaying 
its  gem. 

As  he  entered  the  drawing-room  with  Molly  he 
saw  her  standing  with  one  arm  resting  on  the  shelf 
of  a  Caen  stone  mantelpiece.  Where  the  stone  was 
contrasted  with  the  dark,  gracious  silhouette  of  her 
costume  it  looked  almost  white,  but  where  contrasted 
with  the  ivory  of  her  arm,  it  became  a  dull,  lifeless 
gray. 

His  hostess  led  him  over  and  presented  him,  and 
he  managed  to  pause  near  her,  for  there  was  about 
her  a  fascinating  suggestion  of  underlying  volatility, 
cloaked  by  exterior  repose.  He  hoped  violently 
that  he  would  be  placed  at  her  side  at  dinner,  and 

10 


MRS.  RAILEY 

somewhat  to  his  own  amazement  presently  found 
himself  telling  her  so. 

At  that  she  smiled  and  called  him  surprising. 

"  It 's  the  simple  truth,"  he  said. 

"  But  surely  you  don't  think  you  can  go  around 
telling  the  truth,  indiscriminately  ?  " 

"  I  'm  fond  of  it,"  he  said,  "  but  I  don't  habitu 
ally  use  it  to  excess." 

Amber-colored  cocktails  and  soft  little  caviar 
sandwiches  floated  to  them  on  silver  trays. 

"  The  amount  one  can  stand,"  Mrs.  Railey  replied 
over  her  cocktail,  "  depends,  I  suppose,  on  the 
amount  to  which  one  is  accustomed  —  I  am  still 
speaking  of  truth." 

"  I  flatter  myself,"  he  returned,  "  that  I  always 
carry  mine  like  a  gentleman.  But  as  I  've  said, 
I  'm  not  really  addicted  to  it." 

"  It 's  not  so  much  the  taste  you  enjoy,  then,"  she 
suggested,  "  as  the  after  effects  ?  " 

"  Yes,  the  stimulation.  For  a  man  and  woman 
to  sit  and  tell  each  other  the  truth  for  an  evening 
might  be  a  real  adventure." 

"  And  you  're  fond  of  adventure?  " 

"  No  less  than  you  are." 

"  What  makes  you  think  that  I  am  ?  " 
II 


AFTER  THIRTY 

"  Your  eyes." 

"  What  about  my  eyes  ?  "  she  asked,  letting  him 
look  straight  into  them. 

"  They  're  exciting." 

"  /  hope  we  '11  sit  together  at  dinner,  too,"  she 
said.  "  I  want  to  hear  more  about  myself." 

"  We  '11  have  an  orgy  of  truth,"  he  proposed. 

Dinner  was  announced.  As  the  company  moved 
toward  the  dining-room  Wickett  followed  Mrs. 
Railey  as  closely  as  her  train  permitted.  Yes !  there 
at  the  right  of  her  place  was  a  card  bearing  his 
name. 

"  An  answer  to  a  prayer !  "  he  mwrmured  over  her 
shoulder,  as  he  seated  her. 

"  Let 's  talk  to  the  others  a  little,  first,"  she  said 
in  a  low  tone,  as  a  maid  placed  oysters  before  them. 
"  Then  we  can  come  back."  With  that  she  turned 
to  the  gentleman  upon  her  left;  and  Wickett,  after 
gazing  disconsolately,  for  a  moment,  at  the  hair 
ornament  anchored  like  a  raft  in  the  black  waves  at 
the  back  of  her  head,  had  no  alternative  but  to  shift 
to  the  lady  on  his  right. 

Ten  years  earlier  she  had  been  a  beauty ;  now  she 
was  a  bust.  Her  bosom,  revealed  in  generous 
decolletage,  had  the  gradual  slope  of  a  bookkeeper's 

12 


MRS.  RAILEY 

desk.  While  they  talked  of  Palm  Beach,  whither 
she  had  recently  returned,  Wickett  kept  watch  from 
the  corner  of  one  eye  for  Mrs.  Railey,  and  when, 
after  a  time,  she  turned  ever  so  slightly  toward  him, 
he  was  there  to  meet  her. 

"  Welcome  home !  "  he  said. 

And  she  answered :     "  It 's  nice  to  get  back." 

"  Your  husband  and  my  wife  seem  to  be  getting 
on  famously,  too,"  he  said,  after  a  glance  across 
the  table.  "  I  heard  them  talking  about  salt  marsh 
grass  as  a  winter  covering  for  rose  bushes.  He  's 
fond  of  country  life,  I  take  it." 

"Yes  — and  she?" 

"  Oh,  yes.  The  city  rather  tires  her,  whereas  it 
keys  me  up." 

"  I  know,"  she  said,  nodding  in  agreement. 
Then :  "  But  they  're  just  the  sort  for  people  like 
you  and  me  to  marry ;  are  n't  they  ?  " 

"  Yes.  You  and  I  are  wonderfully  congenial  as 
we  are  now  —  at  a  dinner.  But  you  mean  that  — 
that — "  He  paused,  smiling. 

"  That  we  should  probably  fight " 

Then,  as  she  hesitated,  he  finished  for  her: 

"  If  we  were  married." 

"  Precisely,"  she  said,  her  cheeks  flushing  a  little. 


AFTER  THIRTY 

"  People  speak  of  '  double  harness,'  but  marriage 
is  n't  double  harness.  It 's  a  tandem.  There  's  a 
leader  to  prance  and  shy,  and  a  wheeler  to  do  the 
steady  pulling  and  keep  the  cart  in  the  middle  of 
the  road.  I  'm  afraid  the  leaders,  left  to  them 
selves,  might  ditch  it." 

"  Yes,"  he  said  with  a  long  breath  that  was  almost 
a  sigh.  "  I  sometimes  wish  I  were  the  other  kind  — 
don't  you  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,  of  course  I  do,  sometimes,"  she  ad 
mitted  with  a  crooked  little  smile,  "  but  then  again  I 
can't  deny  I  love  to  prance.  And  I  '11  be  sorry  when 
prancing  days  are  over.  Won't  you?  Time  is  the 
whip.  When  I  think  of  Time  I  want  to  lay  back  my 
ears  and  bite  and  kick  at  him."  Then,  as  though 
by  way  of  explanation,  she  added  with  a  frankness 
that  amazed  and  charmed  him :  "  You  see,  I  'm 
thirty." 

She  might  have  said  twenty-six  or  twenty-seven ; 
he  would  have  believed  her.  But  thirty!  The 
frank  avowal  with  its  ring  of  truth  challenged  his 
admiration  so  completely  that  the  very  thought  of 
an  obvious  pretty  answer  was  offensive.  Still, 
thirty  is  no  great  age ;  he  felt  it  his  duty  as  a  tempo 
rary  truth-teller  to  insist  upon  the  point;  and  the 

14 


MRS.  RAILEY 

vehemence  with  which  he  did  so  was  in  no  wise  di 
minished  by  the  recollection  that  his  wife  had  told 
him,  earlier  in  the  evening,  that  his  hair  was  begin 
ning  to  thin  out  just  a  trifle  at  the  temples. 

When  Mrs.  Railey  did  not  prove  an  easy  convert, 
he  insisted  further.  Had  they  been  alone,  he  might 
have  deemed  it  fitting  to  temper  somewhat  the  ex 
pression  of  his  admiration;  but,  being  tete-a-tete 
with  her  in  the  imperfect  seclusion  of  a  large  dinner 
party,  he  felt  at  liberty  to  be  outspoken,  so  long  as 
no  one  overheard. 

Whispered  to  a  young  girl  in  a  moonlit  garden, 
the  things  he  said  might  have  made  the  opening  to  a 
matrimonial  overture;  set  forth  here  in  the  rigidity 
of  type  they  might  suggest  a  prelude  to  scandal ;  but 
spoken  in  the  place  and  manner  that  they  were,  and 
in  a  tone  that  strove,  with  more  or  less  success,  for 
an  effect  of  cold,  truthful  analysis,  they  amounted 
only  to  very  definite  assurances,  from  a  very  san 
guine  and  admiring  man,  that  in  Mrs.  Railey's  case, 
certain  painful  penalties  imposed  by  Time  were  to 
be  rendered  null  arid  void. 

Oddly,  perhaps,  the  news  that  she  was  to  be  the 
beneficiary  of  unprecedented  natural  phenomena  left 
the  lady  unmoved. 

15 


AFTER  THIRTY 

"  Ah,  but  you  're  a  man,"  she  said ;  then  added : 
"  I  've  been  looking  in  my  glass  to-day." 

Wickett's  imagination  balked  at  the  idea  that  a 
mirror  could  give  such  a  woman  aught  but  satisfac 
tion.  How  amazed  he  would  have  been,  could  he 
have  seen  her  as  she  sat,  that  afternoon,  before  the 
triple  mirrors  of  her  dressing-table,  lips  compressed, 
a  look  of  cold  appraisal  in  her  eyes.  She  was  bal 
ancing  her  account  with  youth  —  admitting  certain 
items  on  the  debit  side  which  had,  as  yet,  been  over 
looked  by  all  save  herself  and  her  masseuse.  Even 
Fred,  her  husband,  had  been  surprised  when,  on 
coming  home  from  business,  he  had  found  her  there 
and  learned  her  thoughts  —  some  of  them.  He  had 
laughed  and  told  her  that  her  fancies  wer£  absurd. 
And  now,  only  a  few  hours  later,  here  was  another 
man  caressing  her  with  his  gaze  and  saying  the  self 
same  thing. 

Ah,  if  she  could  but  believe  them !  But  no.  She 
knew.  There  were  microscopic  wrinkles  beneath 
her  eyes  —  wrinkles  made  by  laughter.  So  even 
happiness  takes  toll  of  us!  Nor  were  those  little 
wrinkles  all.  An  infinitesimal  fullness  began  to 
show  beneath  her  chin.  As  she  thought  of  it  now, 
she  threw  her  head  back  a  trifle,  and  Wickett,  far 

16 


MRS.  RAILEY 

from  comprehending  the  reason  for  the  action,  ad 
mired  the  spirited  pose. 

Did  their  truth-telling  compact  cause  her  to  tell 
him  of  the  little  wrinkles  and  the  little  fullness? 
No.  She  had  n't  even  told  Fred.  However,  she 
placated  the  little  god  of  Truth  by  particularizing, 
now  to  Wickett,  on  certain  inward  evidences  of  de 
cline  —  as,  for  instance,  that  she  had  caught  herself, 
of  late,  reflecting  gravely  upon  domestic  matters  of 
the  least  importance;  that  she  had  yawned  several 
times  during  the  last  act  of  the  new  Shaw  play  and, 
as  though  that  were  not  bad  enough,  had  wanted  to 
go  home,  when  the  curtain  fell,  instead  of  chim 
ing  in  with  Fred's  idea  to  sup  among  the  gay  and 
gilded. 

Wickett  declared  it  was  the  weather. 

"  No,"  she  insisted.  "  It  is  to  be  the  truth  to 
night,  remember.  And  the  truth  is  that  I  'm  past 
the  age  of  thrills." 

He  was  shocked.  Again  he  argued.  And  when 
a  man  attempts  to  convince  the  most  recent  most- 
fascinadng-woman-he-has-ever-met  that  she  is  not 
past  the  age  of  thrills,  the  argument  itself  has  thrill 
ing  possibilities.  As  he  enlarged  upon  his  theme  he 
became  almost  indiscreet.  Mrs.  Railey  did  not  ob- 

17 


AFTER  THIRTY 

ject  to  that,  however;  on  the  contrary,  she  liked  him 
to  be  indiscreet;  it  stimulated  her.  And  he  liked  to 
be  indiscreet;  it  stimulated  him.  Thus  one  thing  led 
quite  naturally  to  another  —  as  one  thing  has  a 
tricky  way  of  doing  —  and  before  he  knew  it,  and 
without  quite  knowing  how  he  ever  got  so  far, 
Wickett  found  himself  plunged  into  a  rash  proposal. 

So  long  as  Wickett  and  Mrs.  Railey  were  there 
together,  the  project  charmed  them  both.  Even 
after  the  ladies  left  the  dining-room,  and  the 
men  moved  into  close  formation  at  one  end  of  the 
table,  with  their  liqueur-glasses  before  them  and  a 
canopy  of  smoke  weaving  above  their  heads,  Wickett 
continued  to  glow  with  the  mild  adventure  and  its 
promise. 

Later,  in  the  drawing-room,  he  had  no  chance  to 
speak  with  her;  nor,  in  truth,  did  he  wish  to,  for 
he  felt  that  their  responsiveness  had  been  strange 
and  very  perfect,  and  that  there  was  nothing  left  to 
say.  Enough  that  their  eyes  met,  now  and  then, 
with  significant  percussion,  and  that  they  exchanged 
deep,  meaning  glances  when  they  said  good  night. 

Not  until  he  slipped  into  his  overcoat,  and  stood 
waiting  in  the  hall  for  Molly,  did  Wickett  have  a 

18 


MRS.  RAILEY 

chance  for  independent  thinking.  When  his  wife 
came,  in  her  wrap  of  fur-trimmed  velvet,  she  found 
him  with  a  frown  upon  his  face.  But  even  wifely 
wisdom  saw  in  the  frown  only  the  usual  masculine 
impatience. 

"  Sorry  to  have  kept  you  waiting,  dear,"  she  said. 
"  These  carriage-boots " 

"  Oh,  that 's  all  right,"  he  answered,  coming  out 
of  his  abstraction.  Then  she  felt  that  there  must 
be  something  on  his  mind. 

In  the  motor,  going  home,  he  was  preoccupied. 
Later  he  came  into  her  room  and  offered  to  unhook 
her  gown.  While  he  was  doing  so  she  began  tak 
ing  down  her  hair;  and,  even  though  she  moved 
about  a  little  in  the  process,  he  uttered  no  complaint. 
This  time  wifely  wisdom  did  not  err:  Surely  he 
was  conscience-stricken  about  something. 

His  task  accomplished,  he  passed  into  his  room, 
and  she  slipped  out  of  her  dress.  Through  the  open 
door  she  heard  him  moving  about.  Presently  he 
appeared  again,  in  his  dressing-gown,  and  leaning 
against  the  door- jamb,  looked  at  her  without  speak 
ing.  But  she  only  went  on  braiding  her  hair,  and 
waited. 

"  Dearest,"  he  said  at  last. 
19 


AFTER  THIRTY 

"Yes?"  she  replied,  without  prejudice. 

"  I  am  afraid  I  have  done  something  awfully 
foolish." 

"  Have  you  ?  "  She  looked  at  the  glass  in  order 
that  he  might  not  see  her  smile.  Contrition  always 
made  him  look  so  funny. 

"  Yes.  I  'd  rather  tell  you  now,  if  you  don't 
mind,  before  I  go  to  sleep." 

Now  she  let  him  see  her  smile. 

"  Did  you  find  her  so  attractive  then  ?  "  she  led. 

"Then  you  noticed?"  he  said,  grinning  shame 
facedly. 

"  Yes;  I  sat  by  her  husband." 

"  He  's  nice,  too,  is  n't  he?" 

"Yes.     Why?" 

"  Oh,  nothing.     I  just  wondered." 

"  And  Mrs.  Railey  —  what  have  you  asked  her 
to  do  —  fly  with  you  to  Venice  ?  " 

"  Molly!  "  he  reproached. 

"What,  then?" 

"  First,"  he  declared  solemnly,  "  I  want  to  assure 
you  that  she  is  a  perfectly  fine  woman,  and  all  that. 
But,  you  see,  she  's  thirty." 

"  She  's  thirty  f  " 

20 


MRS.  RAILEY 
Yes,  and  she  has  the  idea  that  - 


"  But  how  do  you  know  she  's  thirty?  " 

"  She  told  me.  We  got  to  telling  the  absolute 
truth  about  things,  just  as  a  sort  of  amusing  stunt, 
and " 

"You  did  get  on!" 

"  Yes,"  said  he;  "I  was  trying  to  make  you  un 
derstand  that." 

"  Well,  you  have." 

"  She  seemed  blue,"  he  continued,  " —  talked  of 
the  way  people  lost  interest  in  things  after  thirty  — 
said  there  were  n't  any  more  thrills  to  be  had  out  of 
life,  and " 

"  Never  mind  the  beginning,"  Molly  put  in. 
"What's  the  end?" 

Wickett  swallowed. 

"  She  's  going  to  lunch  with  me  to-morrow  — 
alone,"  he  confessed. 

"Well?" 

"  The  fact  is,"  he  rushed  on  ruefully,  "  we 
were  n't  to  mention  it  to  any  one  —  not  even  to  you 
or  her  husband.  I  suggested  the  whole  thing.  It 's 
all  my  fault.  I  don't  know  what  put  the  crazy  idea 
in  my  head,  or  how  I  came  to  propose  it.  We  were 

21 


AFTER  THIRTY 

talking  of  adventure.     Well,  anyhow  —  there  you 
are!     What  on  earth  shall  I  do?     I  don't  want  to 

go." 

"  But  if  you  did  n't  want  to,  why  did  you  ask 
her?" 

"  I  don't  know.  It  was  just  a  wild  impulse. 
How  am  I  going  to  get  out  of  it,  Molly?  " 

'  You  can't.  You  Ve  invited  her.  The  only 
thing  to  do,  now,  is  to  go  through  with  it." 

"  Even  though  I  don't  want  to  ?  " 

"  Certainly." 

"  I  thought  maybe  you  could  help  me,"  he  said, 
forlornly. 

"  How  can  I  help  you?  Did  n't  you  get  yourself 
into  it  ?  What  can  you  expect  me  to  do,  then  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know.  I  thought  you  might  think 
of  something. 

In  reply  she  only  shook  her  head  sternly. 

He  sighed. 

"  I  'm  glad  you  to-!d  me,  though,"  she  said. 

"  Of  course  I  told  you!  "  he  replied,  virtuously. 

"  You  agreed  not  to." 

"  I  know ;  but  when  I  came  to  my  senses,  I  saw 
that  it  was  the  only  thing  to  do.  It  is  n't  square  to 
her,  of  course.  She  won't  tell  her  husband.  Either 

22 


MRS.  RAILEY 

way  you  look  at  it,  I  don't  cut  a  very  pretty  figure." 

"  She  '11  never  know  you  told,"  said  Molly. 
"  Your  guilty  secret  is  safe  with  me !  " 

He  smiled  a  relieved  smile. 

"  Molly,"  he  said  with  feeling,  "  you  're  a  brick ! 
I  knew  you  were  one  woman  in  a  million,  but  I 
did  n't  do  you  justice  —  I  did  n't  think  you  'd  take 
this  so  splendidly.  I  —  I  almost  wish  you  minded 
more." 

"  Oh,  well,"  she  said,  smiling  back  at  him,  "  you 
have  n't  done  anything  desperate  in  a  long  time. 
Probably  she  has  n't,  either.  You  had  better  go  to 
bed  now.  You  '11  need  your  beauty  sleep." 

With  his  conscience  cleared  by  confession,  Shelley 
Wickett  retired  to  prompt  and  peaceful  slumber ;  but 
before  she  went  to  bed  that  night  Molly  looked  for 
a  long,  long  time  into  her  mirror. 


CHAPTER  III 

AT    THE    OLD    CAFE    MARTIN 

THE  name  Martin  —  pronounced  in  the  French 
manner  —  though  no  longer  attached  to  any 
New  York  restaurant,  is  still  remembered  as  a 
famous  one  in  the  annals  of  metropolitan  gastron 
omy.  It  first  came  into  prominence  in  connection 
with  a  French  hotel  and  cafe  that  occupied  the  old 
white-painted  brick  buildings  at  the  corner  of  Ninth 
Street  and  University  Place,  now  known  as  the 
Hotel  Lafayette.  When  Jean  Baptiste  Martin, 
the  former  proprietor,  thought  best  to  follow 
the  general  trend  of  business  toward  the  region 
of  uptown,  he  succeeded  to  the  historic  building,  in 
Madison  Square,  left  vacant  by  Delmonico's  when 
that  famous  restaurant  moved  up  to  Forty-fourth 
Street.  Louis  Martin,  a  brother  of  J.  B.,  also  be 
came  engaged  for  a  time  in  the  business  of  providing 
sustenance,  running  a  large  and  sybaritic  establish- 

24 


AT  THE  OLD  CAFE  MARTIN 

ment  on  Broadway,  near  Forty-second  Street. 
Thus  at  tue  time  of  Wickett's  indiscretion,  there  ex 
isted  two  restaurants  called  Martin's,  and  a  third 
that  had  formerly  been  called  by  the  same  name. 
When  deserted  by  the  original  Martin,  the  latter 
establishment  was  taken  over  by  two  erstwhile  head 
waiters,  who  have,  to  this  day,  preserved  it  un 
changed  —  the  most  truly  French  of  all  New  York 
cafes.  It  is  not  all  marble  and  fresh  paint;  and,  if 
it  is  a  little  bit  out  of  the  way,  that  is  so  much  the 
better.  Climbing  over  its  old  bricks  is  a  wistaria 
vine  with  a  trunk  as  big  as  the  body  of  a  boy. 
Within,  the  floors  creak,  pleasantly,  beneath  their 
carpets.  Old  Frenchmen  sip  sirops,  play  dominoes, 
or  read  the  Journal  Illustri  in  the  cafe  proper,  while 
in  the  main  dining-room  you  will  find  gathered,  for 
luncheon  or  dinner,  a  unique  conglomeration  of 
types:  merchants  from  the  wholesale  clothing, 
feather,  and  artificial  flower  houses  of  the  region ; 
painters,  sculptors,  and  illustrators  from  McDougal 
Alley,  Washington  Mews,  Washington  Square 
South,  Greenwich  Village,  and  other  neighboring 
studio  centers;  editors  from  Spring  or  West  Thir 
teenth  streets;  writers  from  heaven  knows  where, 
eating  at  the  editors'  expense ;  and  always  a  sprink- 

25 


AFTER  THIRTY 

ling  of  "  foreigners  "•  -  people  from  uptown,  who 
desire,  for  various  reasons  which  we  shall  not  too 
closely  inspect,  to  meet  and  eat  in  an  out-of-the-way 
place. 

As  with  a  widow  who  remarries,  the  Cafe  Lafay 
ette  found  it  difficult,  at  first,  to  teach  its  new  name 
to  its  old  friends  —  the  more  so  since  the  change  of 
name  and  proprietors  has  brought  no  alteration  in 
appearance.  And  so  it  happened  that  many  of  those 
who  knew  the  place  in  its  old  days,  continued  to 
refer  to  it  as  "  the  old  Martin's." 

Wickett  was  one  of  these,  and  it  was  at  this  mel 
low  old  establishment  that  he  had  arranged  his  ren 
dezvous  with  the  lady  of  the  night  before. 

He  was  there  ahead  of  time.  After  a  tour  of  the 
several  waiting-rooms,  he  went  to  the  restaurant, 
reserved  a  table,  and  spent  some  minutes  in  the  selec 
tion  of  a  lyric  luncheon.  Then  he  repaired  to  the 
larger  waiting-room,  and  took  a  chair  commanding 
a  view  of  the  street  door.  The  door  was  continually 
opening  and  shutting,  and  every  time  it  opened 
Wickett  looked.  He  saw  all  kinds  of  people  enter, 
singly  and  in  groups.  Some  went  directly  to  the 
cafe  or  the  dining-room;  others  sat  down  and 
waited.  One  o'clock  came.  He  found  himself  re- 

26 


AT  THE  OLD  CAF^  MARTIN 

fleeting,  with  mild  amusement,  that  where  husband 
and  wife  were  not  concerned,  the  man  was  sure  to 
be  early,  the  woman  sure  to  be  late. 

The  street  door  was  almost  constantly  in  motion ; 
the  restaurant  was  filling  up.  At  a  quarter-past-one 
Wickett  began  to  feel  uneasy.  Others  who  had 
waited  met  their  friends  and  went  to  table.  A 
memory  of  long  ago  returned  to  him.  He  had 
waited,  that  way,  for  another  woman,  years  before; 
waited,  waited,  waited.  The  picture  of  her  flashed 
into  his  mind.  He  had  n't  thought  of  her  in  ages. 
He  remembered  the  way  she  had  of  looking  up  at 
him  beneath  her  lashes ;  it  used  to  give  him  palpita 
tions  of  the  heart.  Where  \vas  she  now?  he  won 
dered.  Who  was  waiting  for  her?  .  .  . 

The  clock  struck.  It  was  half  past  one.  He 
arose,  walked  up  and  down  the  room,  took  up  a 
French  railroad  pamphlet,  and  sat  down  again. 
Hang  it !  He  was  n't  in  love  —  that  is,  not  with 
Mrs.  Railey.  Why  should  he  be  nervous?  Sup 
pose  she  did  n't  come?  What  of  it? 

"  But  Molly  knows !  "  He  answered  his  own 
question.  If  Mrs.  Railey  failed  him,  if  she  had  for 
gotten,  or  thought  better  of  the  matter,  Mollie  would 
have  to  know  that,  too.  He  would  have  to  own  up. 

27 


She  would  laugh  at  him.  Yes,  and  she  would  have 
a  right  to  laugh. 

Feeling  himself  growing  warm,  he  fanned  him 
self  vigorously  with  the  pamphlet.  Then,  throwing 
it  down,  he  arose  and  made  another  circuit  of  the 
waiting-rooms.  Three  quarters  of  an  hour!  Yet 
there  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  wait.  He  returned 
to  his  chair. 

The  noise  of  service  and  of  conversation  was 
wafted  from  the  dining-room,  along  with  palate- 
tempting  odors.  Save  for  one  other  man,  who  had 
come  in  late,  he  was  alone  in  the  anteroom.  His 
companion  was  an  old  Frenchman  wkh  white  hair 
and  beard,  and  humorous  dark  eyes  framed  in  a 
patchwork  of  wrinkles.  Placid  and  observant,  he 
waited  philosophically  for  some  one,  and  watching 
Wickett,  who  was  so  plainly  eager  and  impatient,  he 
remembered  episodes  of  his  own  youth,  and  was 
inwardly  amused. 

"  Ah,  my  old  one !  "  The  gentleman  rose  sud 
denly  and  shook  both  hands  of  another  Frenchman 
who  had  entered.  Linking  arms,  they  passed  into 
the  restaurant,  leaving  Wickett  alone  in  his  dis 
comfiture. 

Judgment,  assisted  by  vanity,  told  him  that  there 
28 


AT  THE  OLD  CAFE  MARTIN 

had  been  some  mistake.  He  would  not  think  that 
she  had  disappointed  him  deliberately.  Could  she 
have  gone  to  Martin's,  or  to  Louis  Martin's?  Pos 
sibly.  But  it  would  not  do  to  telephone  to  those 
establishments  and  have  her  name  howled  through 
the  rooms  by  pages.  He  did  not  wish,  either,  to  call 
up  her  house,  but  after  deliberation  he  concluded 
that  to  be  the  only  course  left  open  to  him. 

The  maid  who  answered  the  telephone  informed 
him  that  her  mistress  had  gone  out  to  luncheon. 
That  was  something. 

"  Where  ?  "  he  demanded. 

"  She  did  not  say,  sir." 

"  When  Mrs.  Railey  returns,"  he  instructed, 
"  please  ask  her  to  call  up  Gramercy  6840."  Then 
quickly,  before  she  could  ask  his  name,  he  hung  up 
the  receiver.  He  did  not  like  such  tactics,  but  did 
not  wish  to  risk  embarrassing  the  lady. 

Another  half  hour  dragged  itself  through  the 
lagging  clock.  He  was  becoming  very  hungry. 
Those  whom  he  had  seen  go  in  were  now  emerging 
from  the  dining-room ;  there  was  a  pleasant  odor  of 
post-prandial  cigar  smoke  on  the  air.  He  took  to 
pacing  the  hall,  stopping  now  and  then  at  the  tele 
phone  switchboard,  to  ask  if  any  one  had  called  him. 

29 


AFTER  THIRTY 

At  length  he  grew  ashamed  to  ask  again.  In 
order  to  relieve  the  tension  on  his  nerves  he  tried  to 
concentrate  on  concrete  things:  the  few  French 
posters  hanging  on  the  walls;  the  geometrical  pat 
tern  of  the  floor-covering,  by  which  he  could  regu 
late  the  length  of  his  steps.  After  promenading 
back  and  forth  innumerable  times,  according  to  the 
pattern,  he  invented  a  system  of  following  it 
obliquely,  so  that  he  commenced  and  ended,  in  a 
corner.  He  began  to  count  his  steps,  and  to  attach  a 
strange  importance  to  the  number  of  them.  And 
when  people,  passing,  innocently  crowded  him,  and 
spoiled  his  pattern,  he  felt  irritated. 

Then,  just  when  he  had  succeeded  in  making  his 
mind  an  almost  perfect  blank,  the  switchboard  oper 
ator  called  out :  "  Mr.  Wickett !  " 

In  an  instant  he  was  in  the  booth. 

"Hello!" 

"  Hello  ?  "  It  was  her  voice,  but  even  in  that 
single  word  it  seemed  to  lack  the  sympathetic  timbre 
of  the  night  before. 

According  to  the  etiquette  of  such  occasions,  they 
did  not  mention  names. 

"What  has  happened?"  he  cried.  "I've  been 
here  ever  since  quarter  of  one!  " 

30 


AT  THE  OLD  CAFE  MARTIN 

"Keen  where?  " 

"  At  the  old  Martin's  in  University  Place,  of 
course!"  He  should  not  have  said  "of  course," 
and  tried  to  smooth  it  over  by  asking  solicitously : 
"  Did  you  misunderstand  ?  Did  you  go  somewhere 
else  ?  Where  did  you  go  ?  " 

"Don't  they  call  it  the  Lafayette?"  she  de 
manded,  a  note  of  impatience  in  her  voice.  "  I  've 
been  to  both  the  other  Martins'." 

He  groaned.  "Didn't  I  say  University  Place? 
It  was  terribly  stupid  of  me.  I  'm  awfully  sorry!  " 

"  Oh,  that 's  all  right,"  she  answered,  with  dis 
couraging  indifference.  "  It  was  n't  a  very  sensible 
plan,  anyway,  I  'm  afraid.  I  suppose  you  're  half 
famished  ?  I  'm  just  sitting  down  to  luncheon  here, 
at  home." 

"  Oh,  don't !  "  he  cried.  "  I  must  see  you !  We 
can't  leave  it  like  this.  Meet  me  half  way  some 
where  — Delmonico's  or  Sherry's " 

"  But  I  'm  hungry.  Hunger  is  death  to  adven 
ture." 

"  No !  No,  it 's  not !  "  he  almost  howled  into  the 
instrument. 

"  And  I  've  dismissed  my  car." 

"  Take  a  taxi." 


AFTER  THIRTY 

"  Don't  you  think  we  had  really  better  postpone 
it?" 

"  No,  I  don't !  Postponement  is  death  to  adven 
ture." 

"  Well,"  she  yielded,  "  if  it 's  as  bad  as  that  - 

"Heaven  bless  you!"  he  broke  in  fervently. 
**  Where  shall  we  meet?  " 

"  Stay  where  you  are,"  she  said.  "If  you  went 
out  you  might  get  lost  again." 

Wickett  went  immediately  from  the  telephone  to  a 
window  commanding  the  street.  Taxis  came  and 
went.  He  watched  them  eagerly.  When  he  had 
stood  there  for  some  time,  a  motor-cab  arrived  with 
a  solitary  lady.  She  wore  a  tan  suit  trimmed  with 
some  dark  fur.  His  heart  jumped  as  she  alighted. 
Was  it  —  could  it  be  Mrs.  Railey  ?  He  had  never 
seen  her  in  a  suit.  But  no.  As  the  woman  came  up 
the  steps  he  saw  that  she  was  heavier  than  Mrs. 
Railey  and  not  so  handsome  —  not  nearly.  For 
almost  half  an  hour  he  remained  on  watch  in  the 
window.  Then,  becoming  acutely  restless  again,  he 
made  the  circuit  of  the  rooms. 

The  woman  in  the  tan  suit  was  seated  in  a  chair 
near  the  restaurant  doorway. 

32 


AT  THE  OLD  CAFE  MARTIN 

"  Well !  "  she  exclaimed,  rising. 

"Mrs.  Railey!" 

"  It  began  to  look  as  if  you  had  disappeared 
again,"  she  said,  in  a  sharp  tone. 

"  I  was  watching  in  the  window,"  he  answered, 
miserably. 

"  But  I  came  right  up  the  steps." 

The  joy  he  had  experienced  in  truth-telling,  the 
night  before,  had  vanished  now,  as  he  declared : 

"  I  saw  you,  but  I  did  n't  know  you.  A  hat  and 
suit  make  such  a  difference  in  a  woman." 

"  Were  you  watching  for  a  woman  in  evening 
dress  ?  "  she  asked  with  a  laugh  that  was  far  from 
gay. 

He  sighed  heavily,  saying :  "  I  seem  to  have 
made  a  hideous  mess  of  everything  to-day." 

The  spirit  of  adventure  was  sinking  with  folded 
wings. 

As  they  entered  the  dining-room  the  old  French 
man  whom  he  had  noticed  almost  two  hours  before, 
emerged.  He  stepped  aside  politely  for  Mrs. 
Railey,  and  reviewed  her  as  she  passed.  Then  he 
caught  sight  of  Wickett,  and  seemed  to  recognize 
him.  "  Ah,"  his  twinkling  brown  eye  seemed  to 

33 


AFTER  THIRTY 

say,  "  so  she  has  arrived  at  last,  your  beautiful 
friend !  And  a  little  quarrel,  eh  ?  I  read  it  in  your 
faces.  That  is  right,  my  children.  Love,  quarrel 
and  love  again.  You  are  young.  After  sixty  — 
trust  me,  it  is  so  —  there  is  not  the  zest  in  life." 


34 


CHAPTER  IV 

WITH    FOLDED   WINGS 

THERE  were  plenty  of  tables  now.  They 
chose  one  by  a  window  and  seated  themselves 
sedately.  The  luncheon  he  had  ordered  so  long  ago 
was  now  quite  out  of  the  question.  Some  dishes 
were  no  longer  to  be  had,  others  not  to  be  desired 
at  so  late  an  hour. 

Like  most  New  York  men  of  his  class,  Wickett 
had  a  somewhat  fatuous  pride  in  his  ability  to  order. 
A  good  luncheon  would  not  mend  matters,  perhaps, 
but  it  might  help.  He  considered  the  menu  care 
fully,  selecting,  discarding,  revising.  Meanwhile 
his  guest  sat  motionless  save  for  a  foot  tapping 
rapidly  upon  the  carpet.  Wickett  could  feel  the  tap 
ping  through  his  boot-sole,  and  it  did  not  soothe 
him. 

To  the  head  waiter  who  had  attended  patiently,  he 
gave  his  order,  looking  as  he  did  so  to  Mrs.  Railey, 
for  her  confirmation  of  each  dish. 

35 


AFTER  THIRTY 

"  Guinea-hen  ?  "  she  interrupted,  suddenly.  It 
was  the  first  word  she  had  spoken  since  they  reached 
the  table.  "If  you  don't  mind,  I  'd  rather  not  have 
guinea-hen.  Just  something  light  that  won't  spoil 
my  dinner." 

Nor  did  his  choice  in  salad  suit  her.  Nor  his  sug 
gestion  of  Russian  dressing.  Even  the  cold  com 
fort  of  a  hot  repast  was  denied  him;  under  her  crit 
icisms  the  meal  degenerated  into  something  like  a 
cold  buffet. 

"  I  thought  you  were  hungry  ?  "  he  said  with  as 
little  mournfulness  as  he  could. 

"  I  was,"  she  answered  wanly,  "  but  somehow  my 
appetite  seems  to  have  gone." 

Yet  on  the  night  before  he  had  thought  their  tastes 
alike!  How  had  he  fancied  such  a  thing  as  that? 
Great  chasms  yawned  between  them  —  one  of  them 
a  gastronomic  chasm. 

Elbows  on  the  cloth,  chin  on  hands,  she  gazed  out 
of  the  window,  into  Ninth  Street.  He  looked  out, 
too.  The  sun  cast  long  shadows  across  the  pave 
ment.  It  was  absurdly  late  for  luncheon.  He  let 
his  eyes  wander  back  to  her.  Yes,  she  was  h'and- 
some ;  it  was  undeniable.  Not  so  handsome,  though, 
as  he  had  thought  her.  Nor  so  vivid.  Where  was 

36 


WITH  FOLDED  WINGS 

the  spirit  of  adventure  now?  What  effort  had  she 
made  to  keep  it  buoyed  up  ?  None  whatever.  The 
collapse  was  not  altogether  his  fault.  He  had  tried, 
at  least.  She  should  have  done  the  same.  She 
could  have  shammed  a  little,  anyway,  if  only  for  the 
sake  of  making  matters  easier.  Molly  would  have 
done  it.  She  never  would  have  let  things  sag  away, 
like  this.  And  she  would  hava  wanted  a  good 
luncheon,  too.  That  was  one  of  the  fine  things 
about  Molly  —  she  liked  what  he  liked. 

He  made  another  effort. 

"  Don't  you  think,"  he  asked  her,  over  an  egg  d 
I'estragon,  "  that  a  delay  like  this  —  the  nervousness 
of  waiting,  you  know  —  can  give  a  little  added  tang 
to  things,  sometimes?  " 

"  It  does  n't  seem  so  to  me,"  she  said. 

"  At  all  events,"  he  went  on,  "  I  hope  you  '11  over 
look  all  this  bungling  I  've  done?  " 

She  had  to  take  her  teacup  from  her  lips  in  order 
to  reply. 

"  Oh,  don't  mention  it,"  she  said,  not  ungra 
ciously.  "  Probably  the  mistake  was  mine  as  much 
as  it  was  yours." 

"  No  indeed !  "  he  insisted  politely.  But  as  he 
spoke  he  declared  inwardly  to  himself  that  he  had 

37 


AFTER  THIRTY 

said  "  University  Place,"  all  the  same,  whether  she 
remembered  it  or  not. 

"  Oh,  yes  it  was.  I  should  have  paid  more  at 
tention  to  what  you  said." 

"  But  I  should  have  been  more  explicit." 

As  there  seemed  to  be  nothing  more  to  say  on  this 
subject,  they  lapsed  again  into  silence.  Mrs.  Railey 
picked  ruminatively  at  her  salad.  Wickett  fumbled 
in  his  mind  for  something  to  say.  She  was  the  first 
to  speak,  and  when  she  did  speak  it  was  in  a  tone  he 
had  not  heard  since  the  night  before. 

"  Tell  me,"  she  said,  her  eyes  twinkling,  "  did  n't 
you  feel,  this  morning,  as  if  we'd  been  foolish? 
Would  n't  you  have  given  a  good  deal  to  get  out  of 
it?" 

"  Certainly  not !  "  he  replied  with  unconvincing 
fervor.  "  Not  at  all.  Would  you?" 

He  had  lied  like  a  gentleman.  Truth  lay  dead 
between  them  as  upon  a  bier. 

"  Oh,  not  exactly,  I  suppose,"  said  Mrs.  Railey, 
still  looking  at  him  quizzically. 

In  the  long  silence  that  followed,  Wickett  heard  a 
waiter  drop  a  piece  of  ice  into  a  glass  in  a  far  corner 
of  the  room,  behind  him.  He  took  a  drink  of  water. 

"  Perhaps  you  'd  like  some  dessert  —  an  ice,  or 
38 


WITH  FOLDED  WINGS 

some  French  pastry  or  something?"  he  suggested. 

"  No,  thanks." 

"  You  're  quite  sure?  " 

"  Yes,  thanks.     It 's  getting  late." 

He  looked  at  his  watch,  and  said,  "  Yes."  Then 
he  called  the  waiter  and  asked,  in  a  cheerful  voice, 
for  the  check.  The  afternoon's  adventure  was  al 
most  at  an  end. 

Mrs.  Railey's  eyes  had  been  wandering,  idly, 
about  the  room.  Now,  suddenly,  she  drew  a  sharp 
breath,  and  let  it  go  in  a  smothered  exclamation,  at 
the  same  time  bowing  her  head,  as  if  to  conceal  her 
face. 

"  Don't  look  around !  "  she  warned. 

"No.  Is  it  —  ?"  He  would  have  finished, 
"  your  husband,"  but  she  interrupted. 

"  I  think  it  is  your  wife." 

With  a  sigh  of  relief  he  leaned  back  in  his  chair. 

"  It  can't  be.     Where  does  she  sit  ?  " 

"  Don't  look,"  she  cautioned  again.  "  She  is  di 
rectly  back  of  you,  three  tables  away." 

"  Don't  worry,"  he  said  soothingly.  "  I  'm  sure 
it  is  n't  she.  But,  if  it  is,  it 's  all  right.  Of  course 
I  'm  going  to  look."  He  did  so,  and  turned  back 
quickly  to  reassure  her : 

39 


"  Nothing  like  her.  I  knew  it  was  n't.  My  wife 
is  an  awfully  game  sort  of  woman,  you  know.  She 
would  n't  have  the  bad  taste  to  come  here  under  the 


circum 

There  he  stopped  short. 

Mrs.  Railey's  head  flew  back.  Her  eyes  flashed, 
large  and  angry. 

"  So  you  told!  "  she  whipped  out. 

The  blood  surged  to  his  face. 

"  As  a  matter  of  fact,"  he  floundered,  "  the 
trouble  was  that  when  I  thought  it  over  —  at 
least " 

"  Do  you  think  it  was  fair?  " 

"  No." 

"  Why  did  you  do  it,  then  ?  " 

"  As  a  protection  to  us  both." 

Her  reply  was  a  sniff. 

"  It  was  n't  square  to  tell,"  he  went  on  miserably, 
"  and  it  was  n't  square  not  to  tell.  But,  of  the  two, 
telling  her  seemed  best.  I  told  her  I  proposed  this 
idiotic  thing  —  that  it  was  all  my  fault  - 

"  But  if  you  wished  to  back  out,  why  did  n't  you 
send  word  to  me  and  call  it  off  ?  " 

"  I  lacked  the  courage  to  do  that." 

Truth  leaped  to  life  again,  and  grinned. 
40 


WITH  FOLDED  WINGS 

"  I  wish  you  had  n't  lacked  the  courage !  I  should 
have  been  perfectly  delighted  to  get  out  of  it." 

"  I  rather  hoped  you  would  back  out,"  he  owned. 

"If  you  hoped  that,  why  were  you  so  urgent  on 
the  'phone  ?  " 

"  Well,"  he  hedged,  "  of  course  I  did  want  to  see 
you,  in  a  way." 

Truth  suffered  a  relapse. 

"  That  was  n't  it,"  she  declared.  "  It  was  because 
you  dreaded  to  be  laughed  at  by  your  wife." 

The  waiter,  interrupting  with  finger-bowl  and 
check,  was  as  welcome  as  the  sight  of  sunlight 
to  prisoned  men.  Wickett  paid  him.  He  went 
away. 

"  Yet,  men  say,"  Mrs.  Railey  reflected  aloud, 
"  that  women  are  the  ones  who  can  not  keep  a  se 
cret!" 

He  was  too  crushed  to  answer. 

"  What  do  you  suppose  your  wife  thinks  of  me?  " 
she  demanded. 

"  She  admires  you,  I  'm  sure." 

"  She  must  admire  me !  "  retorted  the  lady  with 
bitter  irony. 

"  But  she  does,"  he  protested.  "  She  told  me  to 
go  ahead." 


AFTER  THIRTY 

"  She  evidently  considers  me  dangerous !  " 

"You  would  not  wish  her  to  think  you  that?" 
said  he.  Then,  when  she  failed  to  make  reply,  he 
added  righteously :  "  I  know  /  don't  wish  to  be 
thought  dangerous." 

"  Console  yourself !  "  she  said  drily. 

The  waiter  brought  his  change.  Good  waiter! 
Wickett  took  up  a  vague  portion  of  it.  His  guest 
was  drumming  on  the  cloth  with  nervous  finger 
tips. 

"  I  don't  blame  you  in  the  least  for  hating  me," 
he  declared.  "  You  may  be  sure  I  'm  as  much 
ashamed  as  I  ought  to  be." 

A  ghastly  pause.  Then,  with  a  bewildering 
change  of  mood,  she  said  to  him,  almost  sweetly: 
"  I  've  been  a  very  disagreeable  guest,  Mr.  Wickett. 
Please  don't  remember  me  forever  as  ill-tempered." 

"  Of  course  not  —  not  at  all." 

After  gathering  up  her  bag  and  gloves  she  arose 
from  the  table.  They  moved  toward  the  door. 
As  he  passed  the  woman  she  had  mistaken  for  his 
wife,  Wickett  looked  at  her  with  a  strange,  numb 
interest.  How  could  any  one  have  thought  she 
looked  like  Molly? 

42 


Outdoors,  on  the  steps,  Mrs.  Railey  offered  him 
her  hand. 

"We  are  friends?" 

He  took  the  hand. 

"  From  the  bottom  of  my  heart !  "  he  answered 
gratefully. 

As  they  descended  the  steps  she  said : 

"  I  suppose  that  what  you  did  —  telling,  I  mean 
—  was  really  the  right  thing." 

"  You  are  very  generous." 

He  helped  her  into  a  taxicab. 

"  It  has  been  an  adventure,  in  a  way,  after  all," 
she  smiled,  through  the  open  door. 

"  And  we  are  a  little  bit  alike  in  some  things, 
are  n't  we?  " 

"  We  are  even  more  alike  than  you  suppose,"  she 
agreed,  with  a  humorous  nod. 

And  Truth,  who  had  followed  quietly,  planted  an 
unfelt  harpoon  in  Wickett's  back,  and  leaped  to  the 
seat  beside  the  taxi-driver,  as  he  drove  away. 

It  was  half  past  five  when  Mrs.  Railey  alighted  at 
her  door.  Twilight  was  gone;  the  street-lamps 
flickered  in  the  early  winter  night.  She  paid  the 

43 


AFTER  THIRTY 

driver,  crossed  the  walk,  and  rang  the  door-bell.  A 
maid  admitted  her.  The  hall  glowed  agreeably  in 
the  light  of  shaded  lamps.  On  the  table  just  inside 
the  door  lay  an  overcoat  and  derby  hat.  She  took 
them  up  mechanically,  and  hung  them  on  a  hook  in 
the  coat  closet.  Then  she  went  upstairs. 

A  streak  of  light,  falling  across  the  hall,  told  her 
that  her  husband's  bedroom  door  stood  open.  She 
moved  toward  it.  As  she  came  into  the  light,  he 
saw  her. 

"  Hello,  dear,"  he  said,  letting  fall  the  ends  of 
the  scarf  he  was  about  to  tie. 

"  Hello,  Fred." 

She  entered. 

"  Did  he  give  you  a  good  lunch  ? "  he  asked. 
"  Are  n't  you  glad  you  decided  to  go,  after  all  ?  " 

She  took  one  of  his  hands  and  patted  it  ab 
stractedly. 

"  It  was  funny,"  she  said  slowly,  "  and  it  was 
dreadful,  and  he  's  really  very  nice.  I  '11  tell  you 
about  it  at  dinner.  Now  I  must  dress." 

She  dropped  his  hand  and  moved  away.  But  at 
the  door  she  turned. 

"  I  've  learned  one  thing,"  she  said.  "  There  's 
44 


WITH  FOLDED  WINGS 

nothing  in  adventure  after  thirty- four.     It 's  too 
much  effort." 

And  Truth,  the  tired  little  god,  who  had  followed 
her  upstairs,  sat  down  and  crossed  his  legs  and 
sighed  a  happy  sigh.  For  he  felt  very  much  at 
home. 


45 


CHAPTER  V 

THE    STIMULATING    MRS.    BARTON 

THOUGH  he  was  able,  after  a  month  or  two, 
to  perceive  certain  humorous  aspects  of  the 
failure  of  his  enterprise  with  Mrs.  Railey,  Wickett 
remained,  for  some  time  thereafter,  a  chastened 
being.  Adventure,  he  felt,  was  not  for  him. 
Worse  things,  there  were,  after  all,  than  placid  mat 
rimonial  drifting.  So  it  seemed  to  him  for  a  con 
siderable  time. 

Then,  one  summer,  he  encountered  Mrs.  Barton. 

The  Bartons  had  rented  for  the  season  a  large 
house  at  the  other  side  of  the  golf  links  from  the 
Wicketts'  place.  Having  much  money,  no  children, 
and  a  taste  for  entertaining,  it  was  felt  by  many 
members  of  the  country  club  that  they  made  a 
delightful  addition  to  the  community.  Mr.  Barton 
was  fat  and  placid ;  and  Mrs.  Barton  who  had  burn 
ing  eyes,  and  who  admitted  to  the  possession  of  a 

46 


THE  STIMULATING  MRS.  BARTON 

"  temperament,"  credited  him  with  the  phenomenal 
feat  of  failing  to  comprehend  her. 

Finding  Mrs.  Barton  stimulating,  Wickett  com 
menced,  without  quite  realizing  at  first  what  he 
was  doing,  a  mild  flirtation  with  her;  and  then,  be 
coming  aware  of  the  flirtation,  and  finding  it  agree 
able,  he  began  in  his  own  mind  to  justify  it. 

For  one  thing,  he  told  himself,  it  was  not  serious ; 
and  for  another,  it  never  would  have  happened  had 
Molly  kept  herself  a  little  more  alive  —  a  little  more 
the  sweetheart  and  a  little  less  the  matter-of-fact 
wife  and  mother.  Wistfully  he  thought  of  their 
first  years  together.  She  had  been  a  real  companion 
then,  up  and  ready  for  anything  at  a  moment's 
notice,  whether  a  gay  evening  in  New  York  or  a 
tour  of  Europe  with  a  kit  bag  and  a  pair  of  suit 
cases.  But  all  that  lay  behind,  now.  Any  pro 
posal  calculated  to  alter  her  domestic  routine  was 
sure  to  be  rejected  —  because  she  had  (or  hadn't) 
done  her  marketing  for  Sunday;  because  of  the 
expense;  more  frequently  because  of  the  children. 

So,  one  day,  instead  of  asking  Molly  in  to  town 
for  luncheon,  he  invited  Mrs.  Barton.  They 
lunched  at  the  Ritz,  and  had  a  bottle  of  choice 
Chateau  Latour  (oh,  he'd -have  done  as  much  for 

47 


AFTER  THIRTY 

Molly  if  she  had  given  him  the  chance!)  and  ex 
changed  horizontal  glances  and  intimate  ideas. 

The  luncheon  went  off  beautifully,  and  the  epi 
sode  of  Mrs.  Railey  was  so  remote  that  Wickett 
never  even  thought  of  it.  Lunching  with  Mrs.  Bar 
ton  seemed,  somehow,  quite  another  sort  of  thing. 
It  was  delightful.  So,  presently  they  tried  it  again 
—  and  again  —  and  again.  And  as  they  ate  and 
drank  and  talked  their  way  along,  they  discovered 
that  they  "  understood  "  each  other,  and  told  each 
other  so  —  with  subtle  implication  that  certain  other 
people  failed  to  understand  them.  Thus,  by  de 
grees,  they  became  sorry  for  each  other,  and  perhaps 
a  little  sorry  for  themselves.  Wickett  began  to 
think  of  Mrs.  Barton  as  a  combination  of  Sappho, 
Helen  of  Troy,  Mary  Queen  of  Scots,  Lady  Hamil 
ton,  Isolde,  and  Guinevere;  and  of  himself  as  a 
blend  of  Paris,  Tristan,  Rizzio,  Launcelot  and  other 
notoriously  ardent  gentlemen.  It  seemed  to  him 
that,  but  for  his  family,  his  coffee  business,  and  the 
conventional  and  commercial  era  in  which  he  had 
the  misfortune  to  exist,  his  name  might  have  echoed 
down  through  history  as  that  of  an  exceptionally 
picturesque  and  torrid  lover. 

When  Mrs.  Barton  talked  to  him  about  her 
48 


THE  STIMULATING  MRS.  BARTON 

temperament  he  discovered  that  he  had  one  of  his 
own.  Had  he  not  been  on  the  glee  club  at  college? 
Had  he  not  taken  part  in  amateur  dramatics,  and 
even  written  a  verse  that  was  published  in  the  col 
lege  paper?  He  had!  But  after  graduation  stern 
necessity  had  forced  him  to  abandon  Art  for  coffee. 
He  began  to  see  the  matter  as  a  tragedy  —  though 
just  what  branch  of  Art  he  had  given  up  he  never 
told  Mrs.  Barton.  Possibly  it  was  poetry.  At  all 
events,  he  had  a  relapse  when  Mrs.  Barton  had  a 
birthday,  for  he  wrote  her  what  she  called  a 
"  poem,"  in  which  he  rhymed  "  hair  "  and  "  fair  " — 
and  what  poet  could  make  a  more  perfect  rhyme 
than  that  ? 

As  he  became  increasingly  conscious  of  the  un 
fathomable  depth  of  his  artistic  nature,  Wickett 
acquired  the  habit  of  dropping  in  on  Osgoojl,  the 
illustrator,  who  had  a  bungalow  not  far  away.  He 
liked  to  go  there  Sunday  mornings,  while  Molly 
represented  the  family  at  church.  He  would  fling 
himself  upon  Osgood's  couch,  wave  an  arm  at  the 
untidiness  about  him,  and  proclaim  with  heavy 
sighs  that  but  for  cruel  fate  he  too  might  have  been 
living  "  this  sort  of  life."  Then  he  would  look  at 
Osgood's  latest  drawings,  nod  his  head  wisely,  and 

49 


AFTER  THIRTY 

tell  Osgood  exactly  what  he  did  n't  like  about  them. 

The  apparent  seriousness  with  which  the  young 
illustrator  listened  to  him  would  have  been  more 
creditable  had  it  been  prompted  by  mere  hospitality, 
or  a  desire  to  learn.  But  that  was  n't  it.  Osgood 
liked  Molly  Wickett.  She  not  only  gave  charming 
little  dinners  to  which  he  was  invited  with  steadily 
increasing  frequency,  but  —  oh !  her  complexion  was 
like  a  bunch  of  pink  and  white  sweet-peas,  and  her 
eyes  were  like  a  pair  of  cornflowers,  and  her  ways 
were  baffling  beyond  belief.  You  never  knew  what 
she  was  thinking,  or  what  she  was  going  to  say. 
She  was  Mystery  personified. 

And  Molly  liked  Osgood.  She  liked  his  curious 
unconventional  ways,  his  periods  of  dreamy  ab 
straction  followed  by  flashes  of  intense  and  eager 
interest,  in  which  he  emphasized  his  utterances  with 
gestures  of  the  arms  and  head.  There  was  an 
earnest,  frank,  ingenuous  look  in  his  brown  eyes 
which  was  boyish  and  charming,  and  which  called 
(Molly  told  herself)  upon  her  "mother-instinct." 
She  worried  over  him :  over  his  fantastic  bachelor 
housekeeping,  his  dish-washing,  the  colds  he  caught 
and  neglected  (and  got  over),  the  buttons  he  sewed 
on,  or  failed  to  sew  on,  and  the  half-tame  mouse 

50 


THE  STIMULATING  MRS.  BARTON 

which  he  called  Henrietta  and  allowed  to  run  about 
his  studio. 

Now,  every  one  who  has  lived  —  even  those  who 
have  not  lived,  but  have  gathered  their  ideas  of  life 
from  plays  and  stories  —  knows  that  situations  such 
as  this  are  likely  to  reach  climaxes  of  one  kind  or 
another. 

The  climax  in  the  Wicketts'  case  arrived  upon 
the  night  of  one  of  the  summer  dances  at  the  coun 
try  club. 

Several  days  beforehand,  Molly  proposed  to  her 
husband  that,  as  Mr.  Barton  was  away  and  Mrs. 
Barton  liked  to  dance,  they  ask  her  to  dine  with 
them  that  evening,  and  go  on,  later,  to  the  club. 

Wickett  said  he  thought  that  would  be  nice. 
Deep  down  in  his  heart  he  was  a  little  bit  amused  at 
Molly's  blindness. 

"  Is  there  any  one  else  you  'd  like  me  to  ask  in  to 
make  us  four  at  table?"  she  inquired. 

"  How  about  Osgood  ?" 

Molly  said  she  thought  that  would  be  nice  —  said 
it  with  an  I-had  n't-thought-of-him  expression. 

So  the  dinner  was  arranged. 

It  began  delightfully,  that  dinner.     But  as  the 

51 


AFTER  THIRTY 

entree  was  being  served,  there  came,  from  above,  a 
wailing  sound  which  caused  the  hostess  to  excuse 
herself  hurriedly  and  scamper  upstairs;  and  which 
caused  Mrs.  Barton  to  reflect  that,  thank  goodness, 
her  dinner-parties  were  not  subject  to  such  interrup 
tion  —  one  haa  enough  trouble  with  one's  cook  and 
one's  Pomeranian! 

Presently  the  wailing  ceased  and  Molly  returned. 
Mrs.  Barton  made  polite  inquiries,  and  was  in 
formed  that  little  Shelley  had  a  stomach-ache. 

"  Poor  little  tad !  "  she  said,  in  her  sympathetic, 
mellow  voice. 

("What  a  wonderful  mother  she  would  have 
made!  "  thought  Wickett  to  himself.) 

"Yes,"  said  Molly.  "He  was  pathetic.  He 
asked  why  God  sent  him  the  stomach-ache." 

"  How  /OsTCmating  of  him !  "  Mrs.  Barton  said. 
"  You  have  such  charming  children." 

"  Of  course  we  think  so,"  beamed  Molly,  reflect 
ing  to  herself  that  perhaps  Mrs.  Barton  had  her 
good  points,  after  all. 

One  of  her  good  points  was  a  pearl  necklace,  and 
Molly  took  care  to  admire  it,  a  little  later,  in  the 
living-room,  while  the  men  were  having  their  cigars. 
Then,  when  the  cigars  were  pretty  well  burned  down, 

52 


THE  STIMULATING  MRS.  BARTON 

there  came  the  momentary  glare  of  headlights 
through  the  window-shades,  and  the  barely  audible 
purr  of  a  motor. 

"  Here 's  the  car,"  said  Wickett.  He  arose, 
glancing  first  at  Mrs.  Barton,  then  at  his  wife. 

"  Now,  listen,"  Molly  said,  looking  from  one  to 
another.  "  I  'm  not  going.  But  you  're  all  to  go 
on  just  the  same.  I  won't  hear  of  anything  else. 
There  's  nothing  really  the  matter  with  little  Shelley, 
But  he  might  wake  up  again  and  want  me,  and  I 
simply  could  n't  be  happy  away  from  the  house." 

"  Oh,  I  'm  so  sorry !  "  Mrs.  Barton  said. 

"  He  '11  be  all  right  with  Katie,"  declared  Wickett. 

"Katie  is  n't  his  mother,"  Molly  affirmed,  with 
a  defiant  little  nod. 

"  Well  —  do  as  you  think  best,  dear,"  said 
Wickett,  with  the  air  of  one  who  surrenders  only 
after  a  hard  fought  battle.  "  I  should  insist  upon 
staying,  myself,  but,  you  see " 

"Suppose  we  all  stay?"  suggested  Mrs.  Barton 
in  a  sweet,  self-sacrificing  tone. 

"  No,  no,  no !  "  protested  Molly,  shepherding 
them  toward  the  door.  "If  you  don't  go  at  once 
you  '11  make  me  very  uncomfortable!  " 

Evidently  Wickett  and  Mrs.  Barton  did  not  wish 

53 


AFTER  THIRTY 

to  make  her  uncomfortable,  for  Wickett  went  at 
once  for  his  overcoat,  and  Mrs.  Barton  wafted  film- 
ily  upstairs  to  get  her  wrap.  Only  Osgood  hesi 
tated. 

"  Oh,  say,  Mrs.  Wickett,"  he  protested,  in  his  im 
petuous,  boyish  way,  "  let  me  stay  behind,  won't 
you?  I  don't  want  to  go  to  this  darn  dance,  any 
how.  I  hate  dances.  Honestly  I  do.  I  just  came 
to  be  with  you  —  with  you  people." 

"  Nonsense ! "  called  Wickett,  from  the  hall. 
"  Come  along,  Osgood.  You  '11  have  a  good  time." 

"  You  '11  meet  lots  of  attractive  girls  there," 
Molly  said. 

"  Girls !  "  sniffed  Osgood  contemptuously,  as  if  to 
imply  that  girls  were  the  last  things  in  the  world  to 
interest  him.  Then,  turning  a  gaze  of  deep  sin 
cerity  upon  his  hostess,  he  said :  "  Truly,  Mrs. 
Wickett,  if  you  want  to  be  very,  very  nice  to  me 
you  '11  let  me  stay  a  while  and  talk." 

Molly  hesitated.  "  Of  course,"  she  said,  "  if  you 
really  mean  it " 

"But I  do!" 

"  I  'm  sure  it 's  mighty  decent  in  you,  Osgood," 
said  Wickett,  who  was  already  in  his  overcoat. 

54 


THE  STIMULATING  MRS.  BARTON 

"  I  'd  gladly  stay  behind,  myself,  but  you  see  Mrs. 
Barton  loves  to  dance,  so  I  really  feel  — "  Hear 
ing  that  lady's  step  upon  the  stair,  he  did  not  finish. 

"  Oh,  you  must  go,  of  course,"  Osgood  agreed, 
sotto  voce.  "  But  don't  thank  me  for  staying  be 
hind;  I  'm  really  very  glad  to." 

Then  Mrs.  Barton  came  into  the  room  with  good 
nights  which  somehow  reminded  Osgood  of  the 
frosting  on  a  fancy  wedding-cake. 

He  and  Molly  followed  the  other  pair  to  the  front 
door  and  watched  them  get  into  the  car.  Then,  as 
the  bloodshot  eye  of  the  tail-light  disappeared  down 
the  drive,  they  turned  back  to  the  living-room. 

Molly  crossed  to  a  spacious  table  laden  with  books 
and  magazines  and  lighted  by  a  rotund  lamp,  and, 
taking  up  a  piece  of  embroidery,  sat  down  where 
the  light  would  fall  upon  her  work.  Osgood  did 
not  seat  himself.  He  walked  with  slow,  aimless 
steps  to  the  far  end  of  the  room,  drew  a  fresh  cigar 

I 

from  his  pocket,  and  having  lighted  it,  turned  and 
regarded  Molly  curiously.  Her  head  was  bent;  her 
needle  passed  swiftly  back  and  forth  through  the 
linen  stretched  upon  the  little  drumlike  frame.  The 
young  man  swung  about  again,  and,  strolling  to  the 

55 


AFTER  THIRTY 

open  French  windows,  gazed  through  the  screen 
door  at  the  little  formal  garden  just  outside. 

"  You  made  the  gardens,  did  n't  you  ?  "  he  asked 
her,  presently,  over  his  shoulder. 

"  Yes,"  she  said. 

He  drew  a  deep  breath  of  the  soft  air  that  filtered 
in.  "  They  're  gorgeous  now,  in  the  moonlight,"  he 
said.  "  Don't  you  want  to  put  down  your  work 
and  come  outside  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  think  I  do."  She  arose,  laid  her  em 
broidery  upon  the  table,  and  moved  toward  the  door. 
He  held  the  screen  door  open  and  inclined  his  head 
as  she  stepped  out  before  him  into  the  moonlight  and 
the  fragrance. 

Passing  the  pool,  from  which  the  moon  looked  up 
at  them  like  a  disk  of  Chinese  gold,  they  strolled  to  a 
seat  in  the  shadow  of  the  hedge. 

"  Shall  we  sit  here?  "  he  asked  her. 

Obediently,  she  seated  herself. 

Tossing  away  four  inches  of  cigar,  he  dropped  to 
a  place  beside  her.  His  elbows  rested  on  his  knees. 
He  regarded  her  beneath  his  brows,  and  as  he  did  so, 
struck  a  fist  in  slow,  abstracted  Fepetition,  into  the 
palm  of  the  other  hand. 

"The  air  is  so  still,"  he  said  at  last,  "that  it 
56 


THE  STIMULATING  MRS.  BARTON 

seems  as  if  one  could  almost  hear  the  moonlight." 

She  held  up  a  hand  for  silence. 

"  Listen !  "  she  whispered.  "  It 's  not  the  moon 
light.  It 's  the  music  at  the  club." 

In  the  silence  that  ensued  they  both  heard  it,  ris 
ing  and  falling  as  it  wafted  to  them  across  the 
links  on  intermittent  zephyrs  which  were  like  the 
soft  breathing  of  the  summer  night. 


'57 


CHAPTER  VI 

MOONLIGHT    AND    SYRINGAS 

THERE  is  a  terrace  at  the  Country  Club  —  a 
wonderful  wide  terrace  facing  eastward 
toward  Long  Island  Sound  —  and  on  that  terrace 
are  tall  syringa  bushes,  and  in  the  shadow  of  the 
bushes  is  a  marble  seat  of  classic  and  uncomfortable 
design,  and  on  that  seat  sat  Wickett  and  Mrs.  Bar 
ton  —  and  hardly  knew  that  it  was  not  upholstered. 
Wickett  had  not  even  said  it  was  too  hot  for 
dancing;  Mrs.  Barton  had  not  even  said  she  had  a 
headache ;  on  arriving  at  the  club  they  had  gone  by 
tacit  agreement  to  that  seat  upon  the  terrace,  and 
had  forthwith  lost  all  track  of  time.  The  whole 
world  seemed  to  them  to  be  composed  of  flower- 
scents  and  music  and  the  dust  of  moon  and  stars. 
And  oh,  the  mystery  there  was  about  her  in  that 
nocturnal  light!  And  oh,  the  rapt  intensity  of  the 
gaze  with  which  his  eyes  caressed  her  as  they  sat 
there  talking  in  low  voices  about  Men  and  Women, 
Life  and  Love. 

58 


MOONLIGHT  AND  SYRINGAS 

Presently  she  said: 

"  How  wonderful  it  is  that  we  can  talk  about 
these  things,  yet  keep  it  all  impersonal !  " 

The  moon  was  making  silver  outlines  of  her;  he 
did  not  feel  impersonal  at  all. 

"  Vera !  "  he  breathed.  It  was  the  first  time  that 
he  had  called  her  by  her  given  name. 

"  It  has  been  so  perfect,  this  companionship  of 
ours,"  she  murmured.  "Oh,  Shelley!  Surely  it 
can't  be  —  be "  She  did  not  finish. 

"  Be  what?  "  he  asked  in  a  strained  voice. 

"  It  can't  be  wrong,  can  it?  " 

"  Wrong?  "  he  repeated.  "  I  don't  know,  Vera; 
and  I  don't  care !  " 

"  You  should  n't  say  that." 

"  I  do  say  it." 

"  But  ought  n't  we  to  care  ?  Ought  n't  we  to  care 
more  than  we  do  ?  Is  n't  there  danger  of  our  grow 
ing  rash  —  driven  on  and  on  by  our  —  our  hunger 
—  yes,  that 's  it :  our  hunger!  —  for  companionship 
and  sympathy  and  understanding  ?  " 

Her  voice  broke ;  he  heard  her  catch  her  breath. 

"  But  would  you,"  he  demanded  with  intensity, 
"  deny  two  living,  feeling,  human  beings  — a  man 
and  a  woman  —  the  right  to  companionship  and  un- 

59 


AFTER  THIRTY 

derstanding?  Would  you  do  that,  Vera?  No. 
You  could  n't !  It  would  be  too  cruel !  " 

"That's  just  it!"  she  whispered.  "Tell  me, 
Shelley:  Have  you  ever  known  the  utter  dullness 
of  living,  day  in,  day  out,  with  a  person  whose  every 
thought  and  every  word  is  known  to  you  before  it  is 
uttered  ?  " 

At  that  he  bent  over  and  buried  his  face  in  his 
palms. 

"  Have  I  ?  "  he  groaned.  "  Have  I !  Oh,  Vera ! 
Don't  ask  me !  " 

In  a  quick  access  of  tenderness  she  laid  a  hand 
lightly  upon  his  hair.  At  that  he  sat  up  suddenly, 
and  leaning  toward  her,  found  her  hand. 

"Vera!     You  are  so  strange  —  so  wonderful!" 

He  heard  her  draw  a  quivering  breath. 

Then,  drugged  with  the  deadly  combination  of 
woman  and  scent  and  moon  and  music,  he  bent  im 
petuously  and  kissed  her. 

And  an  instant  after  he  had  kissed  her  he  was 
sorry,  for  he  realized,  even  as  his  lips  touched  hers, 
that  he  did  not  love  her.  That,  at  the  moment, 
was  a  disappointment ;  for  he  craved  to  love  —  to 
love  magnificently,  tragically  —  and  just  before  the 
kiss  he  had  almost  thought  he  did.  Illusion!  He 

60 


MOONLIGHT  AND  SYRINGAS 

became  conscious  that  the  marble  seat  was  hard  and 
cold. 

"  Why  —  why  did  you  kiss  me  ?  "  she  murmured. 

The  question  annoyed  him.  He  had  felt  a  cu 
rious  premonition  that  she  was  about  to  ask  it.  It 
was  the  very  question  that  he  asked  himself.  Why 
had  he  kissed  her  ?  He  did  n't  know.  Perhaps  he 
could  find  out  by  doing  it  again. 

He  tried  it. 

"  Don't ! "  she  whispered,  drawing  back  a  little 
"Shelley  —  don't!" 

Promptly  —  more  promptly,  perhaps,  than  he 
should  have  —  he  desisted.  And  as  he  did  so  there 
came  to  him  out  of  the  long  ago  the  memory  of  a 
schoolgirl  with  two  braids  down  her  back.  Her 
name  was  Janie  —  Janie  Vaughan.  She  had  been 
his  almost-first  love.  And  when,  upon  a  boyish  im 
pulse,  he  kissed  her  for  the  first  time,  she  said 
"  Don't !  "  to  him,  like  that.  There  were  syringa 
bushes,  too.  Syringas  always  made  him  think  of 
Janie.  Whom  might  she  be  saying  "  Don't "  to 
now,  he  wondered  —  or  had  she,  perhaps,  since  be 
coming  a  woman,  thought  of  something  else  to  say? 

Mrs.  Barton  had  risen  to  her  feet. 

<<vThis  is  folly!"  she  exclaimed  breathlessly. 
61 


AFTER  THIRTY 

"  Oh,  Shelley !  It  can't  go  on !  Don't  you  see  it 
can't  ?  We  must ' 

"  Part?  "  he  filled  in,  obligingly,  as  with  a  definite 
feeling  of  relief,  he  also  arose. 

His  legs  felt  stiff.  Surreptitiously  he  stretched 
them. 

She  nodded. 

"  It 's  the  only  thing  to  do.  I  must  go  at  once. 
Just  send  me  home  in  your  car.  Don't  try  to  ac 
company  me.  I  wish  to  be  alone ' 

"  Of  course,"  he  chimed  in.  "  Alone  with  your 
thoughts." 

"  Ah,"  she  breathed,  "  how  wonderfully  you  have 
learned  to  understand  me !  " 

At  that  truth  he  sighed  profoundly. 

"  Just  friends !  "  she  said,  and  offered  him  her 
hand. 

His  sense  of  duty  told  him  that  he  ought  to  seize 
her  in  his  arms,  but  he  could  not  bring  himself  to 
do  it. 

"  As  you  wish."  In  his  tone  and  the  pressure 
that  he  gave  her  hand  he  tried  to  suggest  fervor. 

"  I  '11  get  my  wrap.  Don't  come  into  the  club 
with  me.  I  'd  rather  you  did  n't." 

"  Very  well,"  he  said,  standing  before  her  with 
62 


MOONLIGHT  AND  SYRINGAS 

bowed  head.  "  While  you  're  inside  I  '11  call  the 
car." 

A  few  minutes  later,  beneath  the  brilliant  lights 
of  the  portico,  he  handed  her  into  his  limousine. 

"  You  need  n't  come  back  for  me,"  he  said  to  his 
chauffeur.  "  I  'm  going  to  walk  home." 

As  she  heard  him  say  that,  Mrs.  Barton  shot  him 
a  quick  understanding  glance.  He,  too,  she  was 
fain  to  believe,  wished  to  be  "  alone  with  his 
thoughts."  And  of  a  truth,  he  did. 

As  the  car  drove  away  he  set  out  across  the  links 
in  the  direction  of  his  home. 

The  close  cropped  turf,  exquisitely  soft  and  cool 
beneath  the  thin  soles  of  his  pumps,  stretched  out 
before  him  like  a  luminous  carpet  of  green  and 
silver.  Behind  him,  fainter  and  fainter,  he  heard 
the  music  of  the  dance.  Ragtime!  Oh,  he  was 
sick  and  tired  of  it! 

A  low-lying  olive  cloud,  shadowy  and  mysterious, 
became,  as  he  drew  near,  a  clump  of  trees.  He 
rounded  it,  and  presently  reached  the  low  stone  wall 
separating  his  garden  from  'the  eleventh  green. 
Placing  one  hand  upon  the  capstone,  he  vaulted  over 
into  his  own  domain,  and  made  his  way  up  the  grass 
path  between  the  beds  of  hardy  perennials  shimmer- 

63 


AFTER  THIRTY 

ing  at  him  in  the  silver  light.  Beyond  the  hardy 
garden  he  followed  the  curving  margins  of  the  rose 
beds,  until  at  length  he  reached  the  tall,  stiff  privet 
hedge  which  marked  the  limits  of  the  formal  garden, 
nestling  in  the  shadow  of  the  house. 

His  nearest  way  indoors  lay  through  the  formal 
garden,  access  to  which  was  given  by  an  archi 
tectural  arch  of  privet  —  a  masterpiece  of  which 
the  gardener  was  inordinately  proud.  But  Wickett 
did  not  pass  the  arch.  As  he  reached  it,  his  ear  was 
struck  by  an  unfamiliar  sound  which  caused  him  to 
stop. 

The  sound  was  a  peculiar  kind  of  little  song,  and 
it  seemed  to  him  to  come  from  somewhere  near  the 
far  end  of  the  hedge,  where  stood  the  pump-house. 

Until  the  week  before,  there  had  been  a  gas- 
engine  in  the  pump-house;  but  it  had  balked,  and 
balked,  and  balked,  until,  at  last,  Wickett  had  been 
irritated  into  ordering  a  more  up-to-date  contrivance 
to  replace  it  —  an  electric  motor  which  turned  itself 
on  and  off  automatically,  as  water  was  required  in 
the  tank  or  not.  The  new  machine  had  been  there 
for  some  days,  but  Wickett  had  not  found  the  time 
to  go  and  look  at  it.  He  would  do  it  now.  Not 
that  anything  would  be  accomplished  by  his  looking 

64 


MOONLIGHT  AND  SYRINGAS 

at  it;  but  that  it  is  the  universal  custom  for  men 
with  country  places  to  go  and  look  at  things.  Even 
now  it  would  not  have  occurred  to  him  to  drop  in 
at  the  pump-house,  had  it  not  been  for  the  fact  that, 
as  he  reached  the  privet  arch,  the  motor  suddenly 
began  to  work,  emitting,  as  it  did  so,  its  soft, 
crescendo  song. 

He  turned  off  and  skirted  the  outer  wall  of  the 
hedge.  The  song  grew  louder  in  his  ears.  Then, 
suddenly,  the  tank  must  have  filled  up,  for  the  auto 
matic  cut-out  worked,  and  the  motor  stopped 
abruptly.  The  abruptness  with  which  it  stopped 
surprised  him.  Silence  succeeded  for  the  briefest 
moment. 

Then  he  heard  voices  just  beyond  the  hedge. 


CHAPTER  VII 

IN    THE    FORMAL    GARDEN 

TO  Molly  and  young  Osgood,  seated  in  the 
garden  in  the  shadow  of  the  inclosing  privet, 
the  whole  world  seemed  to  be  composed  of  flower- 
scents  and  music  and  the  dust  of  moon  and  stars. 
And  oh,  the  mystery  there  was  about  her  in  that 
nocturnal  light!  And  oh,  the  rapt  intensity  of  the 
gaze  with  which  his  eyes  caressed  her  as,  having  lost 
all  track  of  time,  they  sat  there  talking  in  low  voices 
about  Men  and  Women,  Life  and  Love. 

It  was  all  impersonal  at  first,  but  presently  he 
said: 

'  You  knew  I  did  n't  want  to  go  to  the  dance. 
You  knew  I  wanted  to  stay !  " 

She  looked  up  at  the  stars  as  she  answered: 

"  I  believed  you  when  you  said  so." 

"  Molly !  "  he  said  —  it  was  the  first  time  that  he 
had  called  her  by  her  given  name  — "  Molly,  you 
knew  without  my  saying  so !  " 

"Well?" 

66 


IN  THE  FORMAL  GARDEN 

"  And  you  knew  why !  " 

She  looked  at  him  thoughtfully. 

"  I  think  so,"  she  answered.  "  It  is  because  you 
like  me  —  just  as  I  like  you." 

"  Like ! "  He  stressed  the  word  ironically. 
Then: 

"  Did  you  ever  feel  that  ideas  were  fluttering 
through  your  mind  like  a  flight  of  gorgeous  butter 
flies  ?  That  you  'd  like  to  catch  them  and  show 
them  to  some  one,  but  feared  to  try,  lest  you  injure 
them?  That  is  the  way  it  is  with  my  idea  of  you. 
It  flutters  on  a  thousand  golden  wings.  I  want  to 
catch  it  and  show  it  to  you  —  I  want  to  tell  you 
what  I  think  you  are.  But  I  can't.  You  see,  I  'm 
not  a  lyric  poet.  And  I  'm  not  a  composer  —  I 
can't  compose  another  Liebestod  for  you,  and,  if  I 
could,  I  have  no  voice  in  which  to  sing  it  to  you. 
I  'm  not  able  to  tell  you,  Molly,  because  there  are 
only  the  old  dead  words,  as  dry  as  winter  twigs. 
For  you  I  want  new  ones  —  wonderful  words  that 
glow  and  shimmer  like  the  moonlight !  " 

"  I  'm  not  sure,"  she  said,  "  that  you  have  n't 
found  them  —  and  too  many !  But  your  idea  of  me 
is  wrong.  I  'm  just  an  ordinary  woman  —  mag 
ically  endowed,  perhaps,  for  the  moment,  by  the 

67 


AFTER  THIRTY 

moon  and  your  imagination.  I  'm  getting  matronly 
—  oh,  yes,  I  am !  —  and  besides,  I  'm  old  enough  to 
be  your  mother." 

"  You  're  not !  "  he  protested  vehemently.  "  It 
is  n't  so !  You  're  only  four  years  older!  " 

"  More  than  that,"  she  told  him.  "  I  'm  four 
years  and  two  children  and  one  husband  older. 
And  you  'd  better  be  glad.  You  will  be,  some  day. 
You  '11  talk  to  some  sweet  girl  as  you  have  talked 
to  me,  and  she  '11  marry  you  —  she  can't  help  it  — 
and  you  '11  be  happy,  and  I  —  I  '11  be  a  nice,  round 
old  lady,  who  will  come  to  visit,  and  be  godmother 
to  your  children,  and  spoil  them  terribly." 

"  Oh,  don't  wait  for  that !  "  he  sighed.  "  Spoil 
me!  I  love  you!"  Then,  drugged  with  the  deadly 
combination  of  woman  and  scent  and  moon  and 
music,  he  bent  impetuously,  and  kissed  her. 

And  an  instant  after  he  had  kissed  her  she  was 
glad,  for  she  realized,  even  as  his  lips  touched  hers, 
that  she  did  not  love  him.  She  had  been  just  a  little 
bit  afraid  she  did. 

"  Why  did  you  kiss  me  ?  "  she  asked  reproach 
fully. 

"I  love  you!"  he  repeated,  as  if  that  were  an 
answer  to  all  the  questions  in  the  universe. 

68 


IN  THE  FORMAL  GARDEN 

Those  were  the  two  utterances  which  wafted  on 
the  stillness  of  the  night  across  the  hedge  to 
Wickett. 

The  words  crashed  upon  his  senses  as  unexpect 
edly,  as  astoundingly,  as  bruisingly,  as  if  the  bricks 
of  his  own  house  had  toppled  down  upon  him. 

For  an  instant  he  was  dazed.  Then  he  felt,  rising 
and  burning  within  him  like  a  mass  of  molten  metal, 
the  savage  instinct  of  the  outraged  male.  His  first 
impulse  was  to  project  himself  furiously  through  the 
hedge.  But  two  things  deterred  him.  For  one, 
the  hedge  was  thick  and  high,  and,  even  as  he  raged, 
he  realized  that  an  angry  husband  in  evening  dress, 
thrashing  wildly  in  a  mass  of  privet,  would  make  a 
picture  more  absurd  than  menacing.  For  another, 
the  remnants  of  his  scattered  reason  told  him  that  a 
"  scene "  would  only  dignify  the  fellow's  impu 
dence.  No !  He  would  not  take  part  unless  he  saw 
that  Molly  needed  him.  She  had  been  a  fool  to  get 
herself  into  this!  She  might  have  known  young 
Osgood  for  an  impressionable  idiot.  He  was  one 
of  those  "  artistic  "  people !  She  should  have  had 
the  sense  to  pack  him  off  to  his  beastly  bungalow  an 
hour  or  two  since  —  or  at  least  to  have  stayed  in 
doors  out  of  the  moonlight.  And  she  a  married 

69 


woman,  too !  But  this  would  be  a  lesson  to  her  —  a 
much  needed  lesson ;  for  she  was  altogether  too 
ingenuous!  It  was  time  she  found  out  what  men 
were  —  time  she  understood  the  fascination  exer 
cised  upon  them  by  such  a  woman  as  herself.  A 
wave  of  admiration  for  his  wife  swept  over  him. 
She  was  an  attractive  woman  —  tremendously  at 
tractive!  And  she  had  spirit,  too  —  lots  of  it  — 
for  all  her  gentleness  and  pink-and-whiteness !  She 
was  quite  capable  of  settling  this  young  man.  Well 
—  let  her,  then ! 

Now,  hearing  his  wife's  voice,  he  held  his  breath. 

"  Of  course  I  knew  you  were  fond  of  me,"  she 
said,  in  a  clear,  cool  tone.  "  But  as  for  loving  you 
I  simply  don't ;  that 's  all.  I  have  given  my  love 
once  —  given  all  I  have.  And  you  don't  love  me, 
either.  You  only  think  you  do.  So  both  of  us  are 
going  to  forget  that  anything  like  this  has  ever  hap 
pened." 

Listening,  Wickett  approved  the  first  part  of  what 
she  said,  but  thought  the  last  of  it  too  weak.  Os- 
good  was  getting  off  too  easily. 

"  I  'm  sorry !  "  he  heard  the  young  man  murmur. 
"  It  was  my  fault." 

"  No,"  said  Molly  stoutly.  "  It  was  not  your 
70 


IN  THE  FORMAL  GARDEN 

fault,  but  mine.     I  did  wrong  to  come  and  sit  here 
with  you.     And  I  knew  I  was  doing  wrong,  but  to 
tell  the  truth,  I  took  the  risk  just  because  — 
She  broke  off  without  finishing. 

"  Because  —  what?  "  asked  Osgood  eagerly. 

"Never  mind,"  she  said;  and  Wickett  could  tell, 
by  the  little  rustling  that  he  heard  and  the  crunch 
of  gravel,  that  they  had  risen  to  their  feet. 

"  Please  1  "  the  young  man  urged.  "  Tell  me  — 
just  to  show  that  I  'm  forgiven !  " 

A  moment's  silence  followed,  and  in  that  silence 
Wickett  heard  his  own  heart  thumping.  Hardly 
less  eagerly  than  Osgood,  he  hoped  his  wife  would 
answer.  What  was  the  truth  which  she  had  begun 
to  tell  —  and  stopped?  Had  she  been  jealous  of 
him?  Had  she  seen  more  than  he  thought  that  she 
had  seen?  Had  she,  in  her  heart,  resented  his  at 
tentions  to  Mrs.  Barton?  Had  she  come  out  here 
with  Osgood  through  sheer  pique?  He  felt  a  mad 
desire  to  seize  her  in  his  arms,  and  hold  her  close, 
and  tell  her  he  had  never  really  cared  for  any  other 
woma*,  and  that  he  never,  never  would! 

Then  she  spoke  again. 

"  Very  well,"  she  said ;  "  I  '11  tell  you.  And  what 
I  'm  going  to  tell  is  the  Masonic  secret  of  the  mar- 

71 


AFTER  THIRTY 

ried,  which  you  have  no  right  to  know.  It  is  the 
reason  why  my  husband  wished  to  go  alone  with 
Mrs.  Barton  to-night,  and  the  reason  why  Mrs.  Bar 
ton  wished  to  go  with  him.  It  is  the  reason  why  I 
stayed  at  home  —  on  their  account  as  well  as  on  my 
own ;  and  it  is  the  reason  why  I  ventured  here  with 
you.  This  is  the  secret :  Husbands  and  wives  each 
become  a  little  tired,  now  and  then,  of  always  know 
ing,  in  advance,  exactly  what  the  other  is  going  to  do 
and  think  and  say." 

Standing  silent  in  the  moonlight,  Wickett  heard 
their  footsteps  on  the  gravel  as  they  moved  away. 
He  was  rilled  with  an  extremely  strange  assortment 
of  mixed  feelings.  Whether  he  had  a  right  to  be  or 
not,  he  was  still  a  little  angry.  He  was  self -re 
proachful,  too.  He  was  jealous.  He  was  more  in 
love  than  he  had  ever  been  before.  He  was  very 
glad  and  very  sorry,  all  at  once,  about  a  lot  of 
things.  But,  above  all,  he  was  amazed. 

He  had  not  known  that  she  was  going  to  say  that ! 


72 


CHAPTER  VIII 

OLD   HIG 

A  CERTAIN  symbolism  may  perhaps  be  dis 
covered  in  the  fact  that  the  weather 
masquerading  in  New  York  under  the  name  of 
winter  was  of  unexampled  fickleness  that  season 
when,  after  the  lapse  of  more  years  that  he  liked  to 
count,  Wickett  met  again  his  almost-first  love. 

Remotely  the  weather  was  responsible.  From 
the  time  the  Wicketts  closed  their  house  in  the  coun 
try  and  moved  to  their  apartment  in  New  York,  a 
capricious  climate  oscillated  betwixt  conditions 
almost  polar  and.  almost  tropical;  the  children 
caught  cold  on  cold,  until  at  last  it  was  decided 
that,  though  Shelley  could  not  leave  the  active  coffee 
market,  Molly  and  the  children  must  go  south. 

For  the  next  few  days  it  seemed  to  Wickett  that 
his  wife's  head,  like  her  bedroom,  was  merely  a 
repository  for  a  vast  confusion  of  luggage  and 
light  clothing.  Trunks  were  brought  up  from  the 

73 


AFTER  THIRTY 

basement  storeroom  and  placed  where  people  would 
fall  over  them;  then,  just  when  the  father  of  the 
family  was  learning  to  avoid  them,  an  expressman 
came  and  took  them  all  away;  and  soon  thereafter 
Wickett  found  himself  in  the  motor,  driving  with 
his  flock  through  slushy  streets  to  the  station. 
Their  progress  through  that  stupendous  building  to 
the  train  was  loose,  wild,  Arabian,  and  it  was  with 
a  sense  of  real  relief  that  the  paterfamilias  saw  them 
all  settled  at  last,  with  their  belongings,  in  two  ad 
joining  staterooms. 

When  the  turmoil  had  in  some  degree  subsided 
and  he  was  giving  the  tickets  and  baggage  checks  to 
Molly,  simultaneously  receiving  from  her  certain 
final  information  having  to  do  with  cooks  and  butch 
ers,  there  came  sudden  clamor  from  the  children  in 
the  next  compartment. 

"  Uncle  Archie !  Uncle  Archie !  "  they  shrieked, 
hammering  on  the  windowpanes. 

It  was  indeed  Archie  Higgins  and  his  appearance 
at  the  train,  gift-laden,  was  thoroughly  consistent, 
for  he  was  Wickett's  best  friend,  had  been  best  man 
at  his  wedding,  and  acted  not  only  as  honorary  uncle 
to  the  children,  but  as  a  kind  of  all-year-round  Santa 
Claus,  seizing  on  the  least  opportunity  to  transform 

74 


OLD  HIG 

an  ordinary  day  into  a  festival  of  giving.  Molly  de 
clared  that  he  even  looked  as  Santa  would  have,  had 
he  been  forty  years  of  age,  shaved,  and  costumed 
with  careful  conventionality  by  a  Fifth  Avenue 
tailor.  Again,  like  Santa,  Higgins  had  no  imme 
diate  family,  but  adopted  and  was  adopted  by  the 
families  of  his  friends;  that  is  to  say  he  was  a 
bachelor  —  one  of  those  comfortable,  incorrigible 
bachelors  whose  greatest  fault  in  the  eyes  of  their 
married  intimates  is  that  they  persist  in  remaining 
bachelors.  For  years  Molly  had  dangled  girls  be 
fore  him  as  an  angler  dangles  varied  flies  before  a 
sophisticated  trout.  But  though  sometimes  he  had 
the  air  of  almost  taking  them,  he  always  turned  away 
in  time  and  darted  back  to  the  safe  shadows  of  his 
singleness. 

Like  raiding  robber-barons  the  children  rushed 
to  the  corridor,  dragged  Higgins  in  and  despoiled 
him.  There  was  a  bunch  of  violets  for  big  Molly, 
a  doll  for  little  Molly,  a  conjurer's  outfit  for  little 
Shelley,  and  a  breastpin  of  terrible  magnificence  for 
Katie,  the  nurse. 

Having  plundered  their  adopted  uncle  the  chil 
dren  were  persuaded  to  withdraw  again  to  the  next 
room.  Higgins  sat  down. 

75 


"  I  'm  glad  you  came,  Archie,"  Molly  said.  "  I 
want  you  to  keep  an  eye  on  Shelley  while  I  'm 
gone." 

"In  what  particular?"  Higgins  asked. 
'  The  usual  thing,"  she  answered  with  a  smile 
in  which  wisdom,  resignation  and  motherlike  appre 
ciation  of  her  husband's  shortcomings  were  blended. 

"  And  what  may  that  be  ?  "  inquired  Higgins, 
making  a  loyal  effort  to  look  blank. 

"  His  susceptibility.  You  must  n't  let  him  fall  in 
love." 

"  Molly !  "  exclaimed  Wickett  reproachfully. 

"  No  use  looking  like  a  mournful  spaniel,"  she 
informed  him,  still  smiling  that  disconcerting  smile 
of  hers.  Then,  to  Higgins:  "  If  there  's  sny  fall 
ing  in  love,  you  do  it,  Archie." 

"  Very  well,"  Higgins  returned  with  mock  grav 
ity.  "If  it  becomes  necessary  in  order  to  save 
Shelley,  perhaps  I  will." 

"  Oh,"  jeered  Wickett.  "  I  suppose  you  'd  just 
sail  in  and  cut  me  out,  would  you  ?  " 

"  Without  wishing  to  rouse  professional  jealousy 
in  you,"  returned  his  friend  blandly,  "  that  is  pre 
cisely  what  I  'd  do." 

Being    some    years     Higgins'     junior,    it    was 
76 


OLD  HIG 

Wickett's  custom,  when  chaffing,  to  attribute  to  the 
other  the  qualities  of  the  lean  and  slippered  panta 
loon. 

"  Well !  "  he  exclaimed  in  burlesque  surprise. 
"  Can  there  be  life  in  the  old  hoss  yet?  I  call  you 
to  witness,  Molly  dear,  that  if  I  get  into  mischief 
while  you  're  gone  —  which  I  sha'n't,  of  course  — 
it  will  only  be  because  I  'm  led  into  it  by  this  old 
roue  you  're  always  holding  up  to  me  as  an  ex 
ample." 

"  Pay  no  attention  to  him,"  Molly  advised  Hig- 
gins,  siding,  wifelike,  against  her  husband.  "  I  '11 
never  worry  over  him  while  he  's  under  your  wing, 
Archie." 

"  And  that 's  where  I  mean  to  have  him  to-night," 
Higgins  said. 

"  What 's  on?  "  asked  Wickett. 

"  Dinner  and  the  theater." 

"  Oh,  I  had  planned  " —  he  spoke  with  an  exag 
gerated  air  of  virtue  — "  to  spend  the  evening  at 
home,  being  lonesome." 

"  Beautiful  picture!  "  said  his  friend,  ironically. 

As  Wickett  was  about  to  retort,  the  cry  of  "  All 
aboard!  "  was  heard;  whereupon,  after  hurried  fare 
wells,  he  and  Higgins  issued  to  the  platform  and 

77 


AFTER  THIRTY 

stood  there,  smiling  inanely  at  Molly  and  the  chil 
dren  through  the  car  windows  until  those  windows 
began  gently  to  glide  away. 

The  air  of  mild  melancholy  that  settled  over 
Wickett  as  he  turned  from  the  departing  train  hung 
about  him  until,  after  going  home  and  dressing  for 
the  evening,  he  met  Higgins  at  the  club.  There, 
however,  his  spirits  rose.  It  seemed  like  old  times 
to  be  dining  at  the  club,  to  be  seated  at  the  corner 
table  where  he  always  used  to  sit,  and  to  be  looking 
across  a  bottle  of  '95  Laffitte,  reposing  like  a  sleepy 
baby  in  its  wicker  bassinet,  at  the  placid,  cheerful 
visage  of  old  Hig.  By  the  time  they  started  for  the 
theater  the  oppressive  feeling  of  sedate  loneliness 
was  gone  out  of  him,  giving  place  to  one  of  ebullient 
youth,  such  as  he  had  begun  to  think  he  was  never 
to  experience  again. 


CHAPTER  IX 

REENTER   JANIE   VAUGHN 

THE  first  act  of  "  The  Divine  Dilemma  "  was 
already  in  progress  when  they  took  their 
seats ;  but  it  was  clear  that  the  curtain  had  not  long 
been  up,  because  the  Butler  and  the  Maid  were  on 
the  stage  talking  about  Miss  Angela's  imminent  re 
turn.  The  Butler  told  the  Maid  to  be  sure  that  Miss 
Angela's  room  was  ready,  as  she  would  be  tired  from 
her  journey;  and  the  Maid  replied  that  of  course  the 
room  was  ready  —  did  she  not  love  Miss  Angela  as 
much  as  any  of  the  rest  of  them?  Besides  being  so 
beautiful,  so  rich,  so  adored,  had  not  Miss  Angela  a 
heart  of  gold?  And,  who  should  know  it  better 
than  she?  Had  not  Miss  Angela  nursed  her  —  a 
mere  servant  —  through  a  long  illness  ?  Not  to  be 
outdone  in  praise  of  the  approaching  paragon,  the 
Butler  here  reminded  the  Maid  that  Miss  Angela 
had  prevented  his  being  discharged  for  drunkenness 
and  caused  him  to  reform  completely, 

79 


AFTER  THIRTY 

They  were  interrupted  at  this  point  by  the  appear 
ance  of  the  blond  Young  Lovers  —  a  girlish  boy  in 
white  flannels  and  a  hoydenish  girl  in  baby  blue  — 
who,  after  proving  their  youth  by  chasing  each  other 
round  a  table,  sat  on  it  and  swung  their  feet  as  they 
told  how  much  they  both  loved  Angela  because  she 
had  saved  the  baby-blue  girl  from  drowning. 

In  the  midst  of  a  kittenish  scene  between  these 
two,  appeared  the  Uncle,  bent,  benignant,  bald. 
There  was  a  heavy  crease  across  his  forehead  where 
the  bald  head  met  the  skin.  He  was  followed  by 
the  sweet- faced,  white-wigged  Aunt. 

"  Ah,  my  dear,  is  not  that  your  new  gray  silk 
gown  ?"..."  Yes,  my  love ;  I  am  wearing  it  in 
honor  of  dear  Angela's  return." 

And  then  the  old  Colonel  —  bluff,  gruff,  tried  and 
true  —  frock  coat  and  spats.  He  mentioned  An 
gela's  horsemanship  with  warm  appreciation,  saying, 
"  Egad!  "  and  calling  her  a  "  gal." 

Lowering  their  voices  they  spoke  of  young  Beres- 
f ord.  A  fine  lad !  He  and  Angela,  so  it  appeared, 
had  been  engaged.  Then  abruptly  it  was  broken 
off.  No  one  knew  why.  They  only  knew  that 
Angela  departed  suddenly  for  the  Riviera  as  the 
guest  of  Lady  Ponsonby,  while  young  Beresford  had 

80 


REENTER  JANIE  VAUGHAN 

gone  in  for  aviation  and  was  taking  the  wildest 
chances. 

It  was,  in  short,  the  beginning  of  an  English 
comedy.  For  the  rest,  suffice  it  to  say  that  when 
the  audience  was  overstuffed  with  Angela  there 
came  from  behind  the  scenery  a  burring  sound,  not 
altogether  unlike  that  of  a  motor,  succeeded  by  the 
Bonk-bonk !  of  a  motor  horn  —  for  on  the  stage  the 
horn  is  always  blown  as  the  motor  stops  at  the  door. 

At  this  the  persons  in  the  scene  stood  motionless, 
gazing  intently  at  the  French  windows,  smiling 
eagerly,  and  uttering  brief  variants  of,  "  Ah,  here 
she  comes !  .  .  .  Here  comes  dear  Angela  at  last !  " 

Naturally  the  audience  gazed  at  the  French  win 
dows  too.  Then,  when  they  had  been  kept  waiting 
exactly  long  enough,  and  were  tantalized  to  the 
highest  pitch  of  expectancy,  Angela  appeared. 
And,  for  a  wonder  —  considering  all  that  had  been 
said  of  her  —  no  one  in  the  audience  was  disap 
pointed. 

She  was  rather  tall  and  there  was  something  very 
graceful  and  alluring  in  the  way  she  moved  about, 
greeting  in  succession  each  character  on  the  scene; 
and  there  was  the  same  grace  and  lure  in  the  gesture 
of  her  arms  as  she  raised  them  to  remove  her  hat. 

81 


AFTER  THIRTY 

For,  besides  being  beautiful,  the  actress  who  played 
Angela  was  possessed  in  rare  degree  of  that  rich 
gift  called  magnetism;  she  attracted  eyes  and  made 
them  follow  her,  causing  men  to  think :  "  I  wish  I 
knew  her,"  and  women  to  think :  "  I  wish  I  knew 
her  dressmaker." 

Higgins  was  instantly  intrigued.  He  confessed 
it  later.  As  for  Wickett,  he  leaned  forward  on 
sight  of  her  and  stared  intently  through  narrowed 
lids.  Then,  in  haste,  he  took  his  program  up  and 
scanned  it  closely  in  the  half  light. 

Janie  Vaughan !  There  was  her  name  on  the  play 
bill  —  her  own  name ;  that  was  like  her  too !  —  re 
moving  all  shadow  of  doubt.  It  was  actually  Janie ! 
He  had  recognized  her  instantly ;  even  had  she  used 
a  stage  name  he  would  not  have  been  deceived;  it 
was  impossible  that  another  person  should  possess 
so  completely  her  figure,  her  style  of  moving,  her 
sweet  voice.  And  those  other  individual  character 
istics  —  how  well  he  remembered  them !  The  soft 
sweep  of  the  dark  hair  across  her  forehead;  the 
flicker  at  the  corners  of  her  mouth,  so  humorous,  so 
mischievous ;  the  audacious  look  imparted  to  her  by 
the  slight  uptilting  of  her  lovely  nose ;  the  good  little 
devils  laughing  from  her  wide  blue  eyes. 

82 


REENTER  JANIE  VAUGHAN 

How  long  since  he  had  seen  her?  She  had  been 
sixteen  when,  at  twenty-two,  he  fell  in  love  with  her. 
Swift  computation  told  him  she  was  thirty-one  now; 
that  more  than  a  dozen  years  had  passed  since  they 
had  parted.  Incredible!  Dared  he  hope  that  the 
years  had  dealt  with  him  as  leniently  as  with  her? 
From  her  they  had  taken  nothing;  to  her  they  had 
given  much.  Without  losing  the  qualities  of  youth 
she  had  gained  those  of  maturity. 

A  warm,  mild  something  fluttered  in  his  veins  as 
his  thoughts  ran  back  to  the  days  when  he  had 
known  her.  For  three  years  their  "  crush  "  had 
lasted.  Picnics,  tennis  matches,  football  games, 
dances.  How  wonderful  had  been  that  boyish  sense 
of  possession.  How  long  it  seemed  since  he  had 
seen  her  —  since  he  had  seen  the  town  in  which  they 
used  to  live. 

When  in  the  course  of  intervening  years  he  had 
thought  of  her,  it  was  as  she  used  to  look  at  summer- 
evening  dances  at  the  tennis  club,  under  the  Chi 
nese  lanterns  dangling  so  picturesquely  and  so  slyly 
dripping  candle  grease.  Always  in  his  memory's 
picture  she  wore  a  frilly  pink  tulle  evening  gown ; 
sometimes  she  would  be  dancing  with  somebody  else, 
sometimes  with  him;  or,  tenderest  memory  of  all, 

83 


AFTER  THIRTY 

she  would  be  sitting  out  a  dance  with  him  on  that 
green  garden  bench  in  the  shade  of  the  syringas. 
Never  since  then  had  he  smelled  syringas  without  a 
thought  of  her,  of  the  evening  when  he  kissed  her 
for  the  first  time,  of  her  thrilled  voice  saying 
"Don't!"  and  of  other  evenings  afterward.  And 
now,  as  with  her  before  him  the  recollection  of  those 
enchanted  evenings  of  their  youth  returned  to  him, 
he  seemed  to  see  the  moonlight,  hear  the  music,  smell 
the  flowers,  and  feel  again  the  sweet  warmth  of  her 
lips.  Was  it  indeed  so  long  ago?  The  years 
seemed  suddenly  to  have  foreshortened,  as  it  were, 
moving  her  once  more  into  the  foreground  of  his 
life.  Yes,  he  had  loved  her!  She  had  been  —  he 
told  himself  —  the  one  big  love  of  his  young  man 
hood.  Others  had  come  and  gone.  There  had  been 
one  or  two  before,  perhaps  —  he  hardly  remembered. 
And  of  course  there  had  been  several  since.  But 
Janie!  Their  love,  half  childish,  half  mature,  had 
been  very  real  and  very  sweet.  Did  not  this  emo 
tion  he  felt  on  seeing  her  again  prove  that  ?  Look 
ing  at  her  in  the  flower  of  her  womanhood,  it  was 
not  hard  for  him,  being  of  the  nature  that  he  was,  to 
make  himself  believe  that  the  memory  of  her  had 

84 


REENTER  JANIE  VAUGHAN 

indeed  been  enshrined  above  all  other  memories  in 
his  heart. 

If  the  thought  of  their  parting  —  and,  more 
especially,  the  reason  for  it  —  came  to  him  at  all,  he 
did  not  permit  himself  to  dwell  upon  it.  It  was 
the  romance  of  his  finding  her  again  that  filled  his 
mind.  How  like  a  novel  —  his  going  to  the  theater 
casually  and  there  coming  quite  by  chance  on  his 
old  love,  now  a  distinguished  actress !  How  had  she 
risen?  What  had  her  life  been?  What  was  it 
now?  Had  she  married?  If  so,  whom?  And  if 
not,  why?  Was  she  happy,  or  divorced  —  or  both? 
Had  she  "  lived  "  and  "  suffered,"  as  the  saying  is? 
No  doubt.  Without  analyzing  his  feelings  he  se 
lected  the  latter  supposition  as  being  somehow  the 
most  appropriate;  yet,  as  he  thought  of  it,  he  felt 
stirring  within  him  a  mild  jealousy  of  a  vague  and 
supposititious  some  one  for  whom  he  fancied  she 
had  cared. 

But  what,  after  all,  was  the  use  in  guessing?  Of 
facts  about  her  later  life  he  had  but  two:  he  had 
heard  five  or  six  years  ago  of  her  having  gone  upon 
the  stage;  some  time  later  he  had  come  on  her  pic 
ture  in  a  magazine.  "  An  actress  of  beauty  and  tal- 

85 


AFTER  THIRTY 

ent,"  the  caption  called  her.  "  A  popular  favorite 
of  the  Pacific  Slope." 

As  the  picture  was  particularly  pretty  he  had 
shown  it,  with  a  casual  air,  to  Molly,  and  told  her 
of  his  early  love  affair  with  Janie,  feeling  that  it 
counterbalanced  rather  handsomely  her  stories  of 
that  boy  named  Ray,  the  flame  of  her  high-school 
days,  who  at  last  accounts  was  working  in  an  insur 
ance  office  in  Pittsburgh.  Not  very  romantic,  the 
insurance  business.  Not  much  of  a  career.  Noth 
ing  like  Janie's ! 

What  was  she  like?  he  wondered.  She  spoke 
now  with  a  broad  "  a."  That  was  to  be  expected. 
Did  she  by  any  chance  think  with  a  broad  "  a,"  too  ? 
The  stage,  he  had  heard,  was  likely  to  work  changes 
in  character  as  well  as  diction.  Was  it  possible  that 
success  had  altered  her?  He  would  find  out.  He 
would  see  her.  Like  an  invitation  it  was,  his  redis 
covering  her  on  the  very  day  that  Molly  went  away. 
Molly  would  not  mind,  of  course  —  that  is,  she 
would  n't  mind  when  she  had  once  met  Janie  and 
seen  how  fine  she  was  —  though  until  that  time  the 
word  "  actress  "  might  better  be  kept  out  of  it, 
perhaps. 

"  How  do  you  like  the  leading  woman  ?  "  he  asked 
86 


REENTER  JANIE  VAUGHAN 

Higgins  when  the  curtain  had  descended  at  the  end 
of  the  first  act. 

'  She  's  all  I  do  like,"  returned  the  other.  "  I  'd 
like  to  bite  her !  " 

"  I  don't  believe  I  can  arrange  that,"  answered 
Wickett  with  a  smile,  "  but  would  you  like  to  meet 
her?" 

Higgins  turned  and  looked  at  him. 

"  Mean  to  say  you  know  her?  " 

"  I  used  to,  very  well,  when  we  were  youngsters. 
I  thought  I  'd  ask  her  out  for  supper  if  you  did  n't 
mind." 

"  Mind  ?     I  should  say  not !  " 

"  Then,"  replied  Wickett,  "  I  '11  drop  round  to  the 
stage  door  in  the  next  intermission  and  see  whether 
she  can  go." 


CHAPTER  X 

THE    STAGE   DOOR 

THE  stage  door  was  an  inconspicuous  portal  in 
a  dimly  lighted  side  street.  A  wooden  vesti 
bule  surrounded  it;  and  in  that  vestibule,  on  a 
kitchen  chair  tilted  back  against  the  board  wall,  sat 
a  surly  man  of  indeterminate  age,  wearing  on  one 
side  of  his  head  a  battered  derby  hat.  He  regarded 
Wickett  silently  and  with  the  expression  of  an  ugly 
dog  who  perceives  a  tramp  at  the  very  entrance  of 
its  kennel. 

"  I  'd  like  to  see  Miss  Vaughan,"  said  Wickett, 
handing  the  man  his  card. 

Without  rising  or  moving  more  than  necessary, 
the  man  took  the  card,  read  it,  turned  it  over,  as 
though  to  see  whether  anything  were  written  on  the 
back,  looked  Wickett  over  from  head  to  foot  and 
demanded,  as  if  he  had  not  heard  : 

"Wha'  d'ya  want?" 

"  I  want  to  see  Miss  Vaughan." 
88 


THE  STAGE  DOOR 

"  She  's  dressing." 

"  I  suppose  so.     Are  you  the  doorman  ?  " 

"Uh-huh!" 

"  Well,  then,  will  you  take  my  card  to  her, 
please  ?  " 

The  doorman's  manner  showed  plainly  that  he 
wished  to  say  No  —  and  say  it  impolitely.  That  is 
the  instinct  of  all  doormen.  He  contemplated 
Wickett  speculatively  for  a  moment,  as  though  won 
dering  how  far  it  would  be  safe  to  go. 

Then,  as  the  other's  eyes  returned  his  gaze  unfal 
teringly  and  with  a  look  that  was  becoming  danger 
ous,  he  grunted,  rose  very  slowly  and,  without  a 
word,  opened  the  heavy  door  leading  to  the  stage, 
passed  in  and  let  it  slam  behind  him,  leaving  Wickett 
to  draw  his  own  conclusions  as  to  why  he  went  and 
where,  and  whether  or  not  he  intended  to  return. 

Irritated  yet  amused,  Wickett  spent  the  next  few 
moments  looking  at  the  half-tone  portraits  of  actors, 
actresses  and  pugilists  with  which  the  doorman  had, 
it  appeared,  papered  his  lair  in  idle  moments  when 
there  was  no  one  there  to  whom  he  might  show  in 
civility.  Presently,  when  Wickett  had  begun  to 
think  of  opening  the  inner  door  himself  and  looking 
for  his  dubious  emissary,  it  was  pushed  outward  a 

89 


AFTER  THIRTY 

little  and  the  head,  with  its  battered  covering,  ap 
peared  in  the  aperture. 

"  She  '11  see  you  now,"  said  the  doorman  reluc 
tantly.  With  that,  he  drew  in  his  head  and  let  the 
door  go,  that  the  visitor  might  open  it  for  himself. 

Wickett  did  so  and  entered.  After  the  bright 
light  of  the  vestibule  the  stage  seemed  shadowy  and 
mysterious.  Just  inside  the  door  a  mass  of  furni 
ture  was  piled,  as  in  a  warehouse.  The  air  felt 
damp  and  held  a  musty  odor.  Against  lofty  brick 
walls,  once  painted  white,  but  now  gray  with  accum 
ulated  dust,  leaned  tall,  oblong  pieces  of  scenery, 
waferishly  thin,  layer  on  layer,  showing  flimsy 
wooden  frames  and  rude  canvas  backs. 

In  the  center  of  the  stage  a  scene  was  being  set. 
Bright  lights  shone  through  gaps  in  the  wings,  be 
yond  which  he  saw  men  rolling  out  a  shaggy  green 
carpet  representing  grass,  placing  the  painted  profile 
of  a  hedge,  laying  down  wooden  flower  beds  abloom 
with  milliners'  roses,  and  bracing  up  the  one-sided 
counterfeit  of  a  large  tree-trunk,  whose  foliage  hung 
on  a  coarse  net,  which,  as  he  watched,  dropped 
swiftly  from  the  cavernous  dark  spaces  of  the  flies. 

To  Wickett  there  was  something  horrible  in  all 
this  cheap  paint-and-canvas  imitation  of  Nature.  It 

90 


THE  STAGE  DOOR 

seemed  impossible  that,  from  the  front,  such  a  crude 
collection  of  junk  should  even  faintly  suggest  a  gar 
den.  He  felt  himself  to  have  entered  a  place  of 
craziness  —  a  place  of  crazy  things  and  crazy  people : 
stage  hands,  working  seriously  over  nonsensical  af 
fairs;  players,  standing  about  in  little  groups,  their 
faces  painted  red,  like  paper  masks ;  their  eyes  ridicu 
lously  blackened.  How  could  grown-up  men  and 
women  take  this  folly,  this  delirium,  gravely  ? 

Stepping  over  electric  cables  connected  with  mad- 
looking  lighting  devices,  and  avoiding  sundry  slen 
der  wooden  braces  shooting  up  at  an  angle  from  the 
floor  to  support  the  side  scenes,  Wickett  followed  the 
retreating  figure  of  the  doorman  by  a  narrow 
passage  between  the  drop  and  the  rear  wall  of  the 
building  and,  emerging  at  the  other  side,  beheld  a 
bank  of  long,  narrow  balconies,  one  above  the  other, 
each  giving  admission  to  a  row  of  dressing  rooms, 
the  doors  of  which  were  ranged  at  even  distances, 
like  those  of  prison  cells. 

The  doorman,  however,  did  not  ascend  the  iron 
stairs  leading  to  the  upper  tiers,  but  rapped  at  a  tin- 
sheathed  door  opening  directly  from  the  stage. 

"  What  is  it?  "  came  a  voice  from  within. 

"  'S  the  geTmun,"  announced  the  doorman. 

91 


AFTER  THIRTY 

"  Just  a  minute,"  said  the  voice. 

"  You  c'n  wait,"  the  doorman  said  to  Wickett,  and 
went  away. 

A  moment  later  the  door  was  opened  by  a  colored 
maid,  who  invited  him  to  enter.  The  dressing  room 
was  of  the  size  of  a  very  small  hall  bedroom.  Being 
the  best  dressing  room,  it  was  somewhat  larger  than 
the  others ;  and  having  lately  been  occupied  during  a 
long  run  by  a  famous  woman  star,  who  had  deco 
rated  it  with  cretonne,  it  was  as  little  like  a  prison 
cell  as  a  dressing  room  may  be.  Instead  of  the 
usual  wooden  shelf  and  cheap  mirror,  it  contained  a 
pretty  dressing  table  surmounted  by  a  triptych  look 
ing-glass.  Two  large  trunks,  two  small  wicker 
chairs,  a  stationary  washbowl  and  a  cheval  glass 
completed  the  principal  equipment  of  the  room,  save 
for  a  vast  and  heterogeneous  array  of  clothing, 
which  the  colored  maid  now  gathered  up  and  stowed 
away  hurriedly  behind  cretonne  curtains,  and  a  litter 
of  grease  paints,  cold  creams,  rouges,  eye-pencils, 
powders,  powder-puffs,  rabbits'  feet,  and  other 
articles  of  make-up,  scattered  over  the  dressing  table 
in  such  loose  profusion  as  almost  entirely  to  conceal 
its  surface. 

Janie,  seated  before  the  table,  was  leaning  toward 
92 


THE  STAGE  DOOR 

the  glass  and  touching  up  the  painted  shadows  on 
her  eyelids.  Her  back  was  toward  him  —  a  finely 
modeled  back,  toned  to  floury  whiteness  by  a  heavy 
coat  of  powder,  and  handsomely  framed  by  the  wide 
sash  and  narrow  shoulder  straps  of  black  which 
formed  the  bodice  of  her  evening  gown.  As  he  en 
tered  she  looked  up;  the  first  meeting  of  their  eyes 
was  by  reflection  in  the  mirror. 

"  Shelley !  "  she  exclaimed  with  a  glow  of  cordial 
ity  as,  turning  quickly  in  her  chair,  she  gave  him  both 
her  hands.  "  I  'm  so  glad  to  see  you !  " 

He  took  the  hands  and  shook  them  warmly. 
Then  for  a  moment  they  gazed  at  each  other  frankly, 
kindly,  yet  critically,  as  a  man  and  woman  will  when, 
having  loved  and  parted,  they  meet  again  as  friends 
after  a  space  of  years. 

"  You  have  n't  changed,"  she  told  him  as  she 
dropped  his  hands. 

"  Hair  's  getting  a  little  gray  —  just  here,"  he 
said,  indicating  his  temples. 

"  Let 's  see." 

He  bent  toward  her. 

"  Yes ;  just  a  touch.     It 's  distingue." 

"  And  you,"  he  said  — "  why,  Janie,  you  're 
lovelier  than  ever.  At  least  I  judge  so  —  though  I 

93 


can  tell  better  when  I  've  seen  you  minus  war  paint. 
I  'm  out  in  front  with  a  friend  —  chap  named  Hig- 
gins.  He  's  in  love  with  you  already.  Will  you 
have  supper  with  us  afterward  ?  " 

"  I  shall  be  delighted,  Shelley.  Of  course  I  'm 
mad  for  a  good  long  talk  with  you." 

"  Higgins  is  like  one  of  the  family,"  he  said. 
"  I  'm  sure  you  won't  mind  him." 

"Of  course  not,"  she  Assented.  Then :  "  But 
you  're  married,  are  n't  you  ?  Yes,  I  remember  get 
ting  your  wedding  cards  years  ago.  Is  your  wife  in 
front?" 

"  No.  She  's  South.  You  must  meet  as  soon  as 
she  comes  home." 

"You 're  happy?" 

"  Very." 

"  It  must  be  wonderful  to  be  like  that !  " 

"  Then,"  he  ventured,  "  I  take  it  you  are  n't  — 
that  you  have  n't ?  " 

Janie  broke  into  a  laugh. 

"  Considering  certain  matrimonial  peculiarities  of 
my  profession,"  she  suggested,  "  you  wish  to  inquire 
tactfully  if  I  have  married?  "  Then,  in  a  more  seri 
ous  tone :  "  No,  Shelley ;  I  have  not.  Domestic 
life  is  practically  impossible  on  the  stage.  If  I  ever 

94 


THE  STAGE  DOOR 

marry  I  shall  leave  it ;  and  —  well,  I  've  not  yet  met 
the  man  for  whom  I  'd  do  that." 

Wickett,  hearing  this  avowal,  was  conscious  of  a 
feeling  that  it  was  somehow  peculiarly  appropriate. 
It  seemed  to  him  fitting  that,  meeting  her  again,  he 
should  find  her  a  creature  even  lovelier  than  before, 
a  woman  obviously  to  be  coveted  by  men,  yet  still 
unwed.  But  why  had  she  remained  so  ?  Not  from 
lack  of  opportunity;  so  much  the  merest  glance  at 
her  assured.  She  was  adorable.  Why,  then? 
Could  it  be  that  something  of  their  love  of  long  ago 
survived  in  her  as  more  than  a  mere  memory  ?  She 
had  cared  for  him  deeply  in  the  old  days.  He  had 
cared  for  her  too;  but  women,  it  is  said  (and  he 
had  ample  reason  within  his  own  experience  to  be 
lieve  it)  are  by  nature  more  constant  than  men. 
The  memory  of  her  —  he  now  recalled  —  had  re 
mained  with  him  as  something  always  fragrant. 
Was  it,  then,  impossible,  especially  in  view  of  the 
acknowledged  greater  constancy  of  womankind,  that 
the  girl  who  had  wept  so  passionately  at  parting  with 
him  years  before,  who  had  remained  unmarried,  who 
had  laughed,  just  now,  when  he  had  asked  if  she 
were  married  (and  was  there  not  some  bitterness 
about  that  laugh?)  —  was  it,  then,  impossible  that, 

95 


AFTER  THIRTY 

after  all  these  years,  this  proud,  fascinating  woman 
was  even  still ? 

The  not  unpleasant  thoughts  forming  in  his  mind 
were  interrupted  by  a  rapping  on  the  dressing-room 
door,  and  a  voice  announcing : 

"  Third  act,  Miss  Vaughan." 

Wickett  moved  toward  the  door. 

"  I  '11  run  along  now,"  he  said.  "  We  '11  come 
back  for  you  after  the  play." 

Janie  had  risen.  The  maid  was  draping  a  soft 
scarf  about  her  shoulders. 

"  Yes,"  she  nodded.  "  Wait  inside  the  stage 
door.  I  '11  try  not  to  keep  you  long." 

He  bowed  in  the  doorway. 

And  while  his  face  still  showed  there,  Janie  smiled 
a  smile  that  made  him  think  of  sunshine  in  the 
spring,  raised  her  fingers  to  her  lips,  and  tossed 
him  a  kiss. 


JANIE   FINDS   A    COUNSELOR 

STAGE  hands  were  rapidly  disposing  of  the  scene 
of  the  final  act  when  Wickett  and  Higgins  en 
tered  the  stage  doorway  after  the  performance. 
Before  the  scene  had  altogether  melted  away, 
shadowy  figures  began  to  emerge  from  dressing 
rooms  along  the  various  balconies  on  the  opposite 
wall,  descend  the  iron  stairs,  traverse  the  stage  and 
pass  out  to  the  street.  And  sometimes,  as  a  depart 
ing  player  passed,  Wickett  and  Higgins  would  de 
tect  a  curious  faint  resemblance,  like  a  picture 
blurred  and  half  washed  out,  to  one  or  other  of  the 
characters  in  "  The  Divine  Dilemma." 

True  to  her  word,  Janie  did  not  keep  them  wait 
ing  long,  but  quickly  emerged  from  her  dressing 
room  habited  in  a  becoming  suit  of  soft  wine-colored 
cloth,  fur-trimmed.  Wickett  presented  Higgins; 
then  the  three  moved  out  through  the  stage  door 
way. 

97 


AFTER  THIRTY 

"  Where  would  you  like  to  have  supper  ? " 
Wickett  asked  her.  "  Sherry's,  perhaps  —  or  the 
Rite?" 

"  Oh,  no,"  said  Janie.  "  If  you  and  Mr.  Higgins 
don't  mind  I  'd  like  some  less  fashionable  place.  I 
never  feel  quite  well  put  together  when  I  leave  the 
theater,  and  to-night  I  hurried  —  some  of  the  make 
up  's  probably  left  on." 

"  Sullivan's?  "  suggested  Higgins  tentatively. 

"  Just  the  place !  Upstairs,  where  it 's  quiet. 
You  see,"  she  explained,  "  Shelley  and  I  are  old 
sweethearts;  we  have  a  lot  to  talk  about  I  hope 
we  won't  bore  you." 

"  Don't  bother  about  that,"  said  Higgins. 

Reaching  the  corner  they  turned  down  Broad 
way  and  presently  arrived  at  the  eating  place 
Higgins  had  named  —  one  of  the  few  restaurants 
on  that  shifting  street  which  have  survived  from  the 
old  days  when  Broadway  restaurants  were  free  alike 
from  graft  and  the  elaborate  horrors  of  the  pseudo- 
French  cuisine;  when  Broadway  waiters,  instead 
of  being  smirking,  spidery  little  mercenaries,  were 
amiable,  awkward  Celts,  large  of  body,  hand  and 
heart. 

98 


JANIE  FINDS  A  COUNSELOR 

"  I  know  just  what  I  want,"  declared  Janie  when 
they  were  seated  at  table  — "  Welsh  rabbit  and  a 
great  big  glass  of  Pilsener." 

"  So  do  I,"  said  Higgins. 

Whereupon  Wickett,  who  had  been  consulting  the 
menu  with  thoughts  of  champagne  and  chicken  a  la 
King,  laid  the  card  down  and,  protesting  that  neither 
the  restaurant  nor  the  supper  suited  his  ideas  of 
what  an  actress  was  entitled  to,  gave  in  and  ordered 
likewise. 

Simple  though  their  little  party  was,  it  did  not 
lack  animation.  Even  Higgins,  who  had  expected 
to  sit  silent,  even  bored  perhaps,  while  Janie  and 
Wickett  talked  over  old  times  —  that  topic  usually 
so  dull  to  him  who  had  no  share  in  the  old  times  — 
found  himself  drawn  into  the  conversation.  Janie 
saw  to  that ;  for  besides  the  kindness  proclaimed  by 
the  wide  setting  of  her  gentle,  humorous  blue  eyes, 
she  was  possessed  of  tact  in  such  great  degree  that 
it  was  scarcely  visible  at  all. 

When  she  had  made  Wickett  tell  her  much  of 
Molly  and  the  children,  and  even  of  the  coffee  busi 
ness,  he  insisted  on  hearing  something  of  her  own 
career.  It  had  begun,  she  told  them,  in  California, 
half  a  dozen  years  ago,  when  she  received  a  half- 

99 


AFTER  THIRTY 

playful  offer  from  the  manager  of  a  stock  company. 
In  the  same  spirit  she  took  it  up,  appearing  through- 
out  one  week  in  the  role  of  a  maid.  Finding  the 
experience  amusing,  she  took  another  little  part  the 
next  week  and,  continuing  to  enjoy  the  work,  finally 
finished  out  the  season.  Thus,  without  having  quite 
intended  to,  she  had  become  an  actress.  For  two 
years  more  she  played  in  stock.  After  that  came 
two  years  on  the  road  — "  leads  in  number-two  com 
panies  " —  and  then  the  present  opportunity ;  such  an 
opportunity  as  all  ambitious  players  yearn  for:  the 
chance  to  appear  in  a  good  part  on  Broadway.  Nor 
did  her  story  suffer  in  the  telling.  Like  every 
woman  gifted  with  a  dynamic  sense  of  comedy,  she 
possessed,  also,  the  mimic  quality.  Her  descrip 
tions  of  people  were  not  mere  descriptions  but  rather 
sketches  drawn  on  the  surface  of  her  own  individu 
ality. 

"  So,  you  see,"  she  explained,  "  it 's  a  very  crit 
ical  time  for  me.  I  'm  afraid  '  The  Dilemma  '  " — 
so  she  abbreviated  it  — "  is  going  to  be  a  flivver. 
Most  of  the  critics  roasted  it  and  business  is  n't  very 
good.  On  the  other  hand,  I  personally  seem  to  have 
come  through  pretty  well.  My  notices  were  favor- 

100 


JANIE  FINDS  A  COUNSELOR 

able  and  the  management  has  offered  me  a  five 
years'  contract,  guaranteeing  at  least  one  Broadway 
production  a  year." 

"  Then,"  put  in  Wickett,  "  I  should  say  that  the 
critical  time  was  past." 

Janie  shook  her  head. 

"  There  's  a  lot  of  annoying  business  about  it," 
she  explained  with  a  sigh.  "  I  have  n't  signed  the 
contract  yet.  There  are  things  in  it  I  don't  like; 
but  —  well,  it  seems  a  big  opportunity,  and  they  're 
pressing  me.  I  don't  quite  know  what  to  do.  To 
tell  the  truth,  Shelley,  I  'm  not  a  very  good  business 
woman,  and  I  've  been  wondering  if  you  'd  advise 
me  about  this  contract.  Or  do  you  think  I  'd  better 
see  a  lawyer  about  it  ?  " 

There  was  something  childlike  and  endearing  in 
her  perplexity. 

"  I  'd  be  delighted  to  help,  of  course,"  said 
Wickett ;  "  but  a  lawyer  would  be  best.  And,  be 
sides,"  he  added  with  a  smile  which  included  both 
the  others,  "  I  always  like  to  drum  up  trade  for  my 
friend,  Mr.  Higgins." 

"  Idiot!  "  said  Higgins  genially;  but  Janie  bright 
ened  instantly. 

101 


AFTER  THIRTY 

"  Oh,  are  you  a  lawyer,  Mr.  Higgins?  " 

"  Not  only  a  lawyer,"  he  said  with  a  smile,  "  but  a 
very  fine  lawyer  indeed !  " 

"  Oh,  I  should  n't  go  so  far  as  to  say  that," 
Wickett  put  in.  But  Janie  paid  no  attention  to  his 
jesting.  Still  looking  at  Higgins,  she  asked  ear 
nestly  : 

"  Then  you  will  advise  me?  " 

"  I  '11  do  anything  I  can,"  he  said,  and  immedi 
ately  changed  the  subject;  nor  was  it  mentioned 
again  until  just  as  they  were  parting. 

After  escorting  her  back  to  her  hotel  the  two  men 
stood  talking  with  her  in  the  foyer  by  the  elevators 
for  a  moment.  Wickett  was  the  first  to  shake  her 
hand  and  say  good  night. 

"It's  been  lovely,  Shelley,"  she  said.  "You 
must  come  to  see  me  very  soon." 

"  I  shall,"  he  answered  in  a  tone  which  it  seemed 
to  him  meant  a  great  deal.  Then  he  turned  quickly 
and  moved  toward  the  street. 

Janie  spoke  to  Higgins  as  Wickett  moved  away. 

"  Can  we  have  a  business  talk  to-morrow  ?  "  she 
asked,  giving  him  her  hand.  "  I  'd  like  to  retain 
you.  That 's  the  word,  is  n't  it?  " 

He  smiled  and  nodded. 

102 


JANIE  FINDS  A  COUNSELOR 

"  Will  you  lunch  with  me,  here,  at  one  ?  " 

"  Delighted." 

Janie  looked  after  Wickett,  who  had  already 
crossed  the  foyer. 

"  Shall  I  ask  Shelley  to  come  too?  " 

"  Oh "  said  Higgins. 

Her  eyes  turned  back  to  him. 

"  You  don't  think  so  ?  " 

"  Oh,  perhaps.  I  was  just  thinking  we  'd  be 

wanting  to  talk  about  this  contract  and But 

just  as  you  wish." 

"Come  on,  Hig!"  called  Wickett,  who,  having 
reached  the  revolving  door  leading  to  the  street,  had 
paused  there  and  turned  toward  them. 

"  No  —  as  you  wish."  Janie  said  quickly. 

"Thanks,  then!"  Higgins  answered  hurriedly. 
"  Good  night." 

"  Good  night,"  she  returned,  with  a  little  smile. 
Then  she  stepped  into  a  waiting  elevator  and  was 
gone. 


103 


CHAPTER  XII 

WICKETT    WRITES   TWO   LETTERS 

THOUGH  it  was  late  Wickett  felt  wide-awake 
when  he  returned  to  his  deserted  home  that 
night.  He  was  thoughtful  as  he  made  ready  for 
bed;  and  before  putting  out  the  lights  he  propped 
himself  against  the  pillows  and  penciled  a  letter  to 
his  wife.  After  telling  Molly  how  he  missed  her, 
how  desolate  the  apartment  seemed  without  her,  and 
how  vacant  life  would  be  for  him  while  she  was 
gone,  he  went  on: 

I  dined  with  Hig  at  the  club  and  afterward  we 
went  to  the  theater.  Hig  had  the  tickets  and  I  did  n't 
know  what  we  were  going  to  see  until  we  got  there. 
It  proved  to  be  a  new  English  comedy,  "  The  Divine 
Dilemma."  The  play  was  pretty  much  the  same  old 
thing ;  but  you  '11  be  interested  to  hear  that  Janie 
Vaughan,  of  whom  you  've  heard  me  speak,  has  the 
principal  part.  As  I  knew  her  so  well  when  we  were 
youngsters,  I  felt  I  ought  to  look  her  up  if  only  for 
old  times'  sake.  And,  besides,  I  was  curious  to  see 

104 


WICKETT  WRITES  TWO  LETTERS 

whether  stage  life  had  changed  her  much.  She  seems 
a  good  deal  older,  of  course ;  but  she  's  still  a  nice  girl. 
Hig  was  so  enthusiastic  over  her  acting  that  I  thought 
he  'd  enjoy  meeting  her ;  so  all  three  of  us  went  out 
after  the  performance  and  had  a  Welsh  rabbit  at  Sul 
livan's.  She  is  quiet,  modest  and  serious  about  her 
work  —  nothing  actressy  about  her.  And  she  was 
enormously  interested  in  hearing  of  you  and  the  chil 
dren.  You  must  meet  her  as  soon  as  you  get  back. 
I  'm  sure  you  '11  like  her. 

Having  written  thus  to  Molly,  he  touched  again 
on  the  subject  of  his  lonesomeness,  of  how  desolate 
the  apartment  seemed  without  her,  and  how  vacant 
life  would  be  for  him  while  she  was  gone;  and  with 
that  closed  his  letter,  put  out  the  lights  and,  filled 
with  the  pious  satisfaction  of  one  who  having  noth 
ing  to  conceal  has  not  concealed  it,  went  to  sleep. 

The  next  night,  too,  when  he  returned  to  his  de 
serted  home,  he  wrote  to  Molly.  But  this  time  he 
decided,  after  some  reflection,  that  he  would  not 
mention  in  his  letter  the  fact  that  he  had  been  for 
the  second  time  to  see  the  comedy,  which,  by  his 
own  admission  of  the  night  before,  was  "  pretty 
much  the  same  old  thing."  He  felt  —  so,  at  least, 
he  put  it  to  himself  —  that  Molly  would  not  under 
stand;  no,  not  even  though  he  were  to  explain  that 

105 


AFTER  THIRTY 

the  men  with  whom  he  had  dined  had  asked  him  to 
suggest  a  play,  and  that,  thinking  only  of  their 
pleasure,  he  had  sacrificed  himself,  suggested  "  The 
Divine  Dilemma"  and  thus  been  forced  to  sit 
through  it  again. 

So,  though  there  was  no  real  reason  why  he  should 
not  tell  her,  and  though  he  would  have  liked  to,  he 
did  not.  The  thought  troubled  him  a  little.  It  had 
always  been  a  dream  of  his  to  tell  his  wife  absolutely 
everything;  but  he  had  discovered,  by  experiments 
in  that  direction,  that  when  a  husband  tells  his  wife 
absolutely  everything  she  immediately  guesses  all 
the  rest 

On  his  second  visit  to  the  play  he  did  not  present 
himself  at  the  stage  door.  He  thought  of  doing  so, 
but  concluded  that  it  might  look  better  not  to,  put 
the  thought  aside  and  went  home  brimming  over 
with  the  feeling  that  the  world  would  be  a  better 
place  if  other  husbands  exercised  such  self-denial 
as  he  had  shown.  Thus,  even  though  he  did  not 
mention  "  The  Divine  Dilemma "  in  his  second 
letter  to  his  wife,  he  retired  that  night  with  a  feeling 
of  extraordinary  virtue  and  self-righteousness. 
That  feeling  held  over  to  the  morning.  At  break 
fast  it  occurred  to  him  that  some  reward  was  due 

1 06 


WICKETT  WRITES  TWO  LETTERS 

him  for  his  piety,  and  before  luncheon  he  decided 
precisely  what  the  nature  of  his  compensation 
ought  to  be.  He  would  take  Janie  out  to  supper. 

At  once  he  called  her  up,  and  when  he  heard  her 
voice  on  the  wire  he  was  conscious  of  a  sudden  and 
by  no  means  disagreeable  quickening  of  the  pulse. 

"  And  it  is  to  be  a  real  supper  at  a  real  place  this 
time,"  he  told  her  when  she  had  accepted.  "  Some 
thing  nice  to  make  up  for  the  sawdust  party  we  had 
the  other  night." 

"  If  I  dress,"  she  warned  him,  "  I  '11  have  to  keep 
you  waiting  longer." 

"  I  sha'n't  mind,"  he  told  her;  and  so  it  was  ar 
ranged. 

Having  seen  "  The  Divine  Dilemma  "  two  nights 
running,  Wickett  now  decided  that  he  would  pass  a 
lazy  evening,  dining  downtown  rather  late,  going 
home  afterward  to  dress,  and  returning  to  the 
brightly  lighted  district  at  about  the  time  the  thea 
ters  were  closing.  But  when,  after  having  dined 
and  dressed  in  a  fashion  as  leisurely  as  possible,  he 
looked  at  his  watch,  he  discovered  to  his  great  an 
noyance  that  there  was  yet  an  hour  and  a  half  upon 
his  hands. 

Lighting  a  fresh  cigar,  he  went  to  the  living  room 
107 


AFTER  THIRTY 

and,  standing  by  the  table,  fumbled  over  several 
novels  left  behind  for  him  by  Molly.  They  did  not 
look  interesting.  Anyway,  he  did  not  want  to  read. 
He  felt  restless.  He  wanted  to  go  somewhere  — 
to  get  out.  He  decided  to  pass  the  time  by  walk 
ing  down  to  the  club,  and  to  that  end  set  forth ;  but 
by  the  time  he  reached  the  corner  of  the  block  he 
knew  he  did  not  feel  like  walking. 

"  Taxi  ?  "  suggested  an  acute  chauffeur. 

Wickett  turned  and  stepped  into  the  machine. 

"Whereto,  sir?" 

He  had  meant  to  go  to  the  club.  Until  this  very 
instant  he  had  thought  that  he  was  on  his  way 
there.  But  now,  of  a  sudden,  he  knew  that  he  was 
not.  He  was  going  to  the  theater  to  see  Janie  in 
whatever  portion  of  the  play  remained. 


108 


CHAPTER  XIII 

DINER    A   DEUX 

NEVER  in  his  life,  it  seemed  to  Wickett,  had 
he  seen  a  picture  so  superb  as  that  presented 
by  Janie  when  she  emerged  at  last  from  her  dress 
ing  room.  There  was,  it  struck  him,  something 
acutely  dramatic,  too,  in  the  contrast  between  her 
finished,  fashionable  loveliness  and  the  background 
of  the  stage  —  dusty,  gray,  dismantled.  And  yet 
when,  a  few  moments  later,  he  found  himself  gazing 
at  her  across  a  glowing  table  in  the  richly  subdued 
surroundings  of  a  luxurious  restaurant,  she  was,  if 
such  a  thing  might  be,  more  lovely  still.  He  had 
felt  a  mild,  sustained  annoyance  over  having  taken 
her  to  Sullivan's  the  other  night.  The  incongruity 
of  her  in  such  a  place  offended  him.  How  different, 
this!  How  sympathetic  and  self-effacing  the  serv 
ice,  how  delectable  the  viands,  how  soft  the  carpets, 
music,  lights. 

She  had  much  to  tell  him.     Higgins  had  gone 
109 


AFTER  THIRTY 

over  the  contract  offered  by  her  manager  and  sug 
gested  advantageous  alterations,  to  all  of  which  the 
manager  had  agreed. 

"  It  was  like  a  miracle,  his  being  with  you  the 
other  night,"  she  told  Wickett  as  the  caviar  was  set 
before  them.  "  It 's  going  to  make  a  difference 
with  the  whole  of  my  career  —  having  his  advice." 

"  I  knew  he  was  the  man  for  you."  He  beamed 
paternally  upon  her.  "  Besides  being  my  lawyer 
he  's  one  of  the  best  friends  I  have.  He  'd  do  any 
thing  for  a  friend  of  mine." 

"  Yes,"  she  returned,  brimming  with  gratitude. 
"  He  said  so." 

"  He  means  it." 

"  So,"  she  said  sweetly,  "  I  have  you  to  thank  for 
it  all,  Shelley." 

"  Oh,  it  '*  nothing,"  he  returned,  trying  to  con 
ceal  the  pleasure  her  appreciation  gave  him.  "  I 
only  introduced  him  to  you;  introduced  one  clear 
friend  of  mine  to  another.  That  is  n't  much  —  is 
it?" 

"  It  has  meant  much  to  me,"  she  insisted, 
"  especially  at  just  this  point  in  my  career.  You 
see  they've  decided,  since  I  saw  you,  to  close  '  The 
Dilemma  '  as  soon  as  possible.  We  began  rehears- 

no 


DINER  A  DEUX 

ing  a  new  piece  — '  The  Journey  '  it 's  called  — 
yesterday.  We  '11  open  with  it  in  three  or  four 
weeks." 

"  That  means  you  '11  be  in  New  York  for  a  long 
time?" 

"  All  season  I  hope." 

"  I  hope  so  too!  "  he  said  fervently.  "  It  would 
seem  awful  if  you  were  to  go  away  now  —  now  that 
I  've  found  you  again." 

She  looked  up  at  him  frankly. 

"  It 's  nice,"  she  said,  "  to  know  that  you  still  like 
me  after  so  many  years." 

No  emotional  display  from  her  could  have  affected 
him  as  profoundly,  just  then,  as  did  her  cool,  honest 
gaze  and  the  even,  friendly  tone  of  her  voice: 

"  Like  you?"  he  repeated.  "  Li ke  you!  Why, 
Janie,  I  can't  realize  that  there  's  been  a  break  at  all. 
It  does  n't  seem  possible.  It  seems  as  though  we 
were  the  same  young  pair  we  used  to  be.  It 's  as 
though  it  all  —  as  though  everything  had  come 
back!" 

He  stopped  speaking  and  took  a  draught  of  his 
champagne  while  the  words  he  had  just  spoken 
reverberated  in  his  mind  like  the  echo  of  something 
somebody  else  had  said.  How  beautiful  she  was  in 

in 


AFTER  THIRTY 

her  lovely  evening  gown,  the  blue  of  which  repeated 
so  exactly  the  color  of  her  great  cool  eyes!  And 
how  very  cool  they  were.  Her  composure  was  per 
fect.  He  thanked  heaven  fgr  that.  Doubtless  she 
had  not  understood  what  he  said  —  had  not  realized 
what  he  meant. 

Through  the  welter  of  his  perturbed  feeling 
her  voice  penetrated,  sounding  calm  and  very  far 
away.  She  was  telling  him  about  her  part  in  the 
new  play.  With  an  effort  of  will  he  succeeded  in 
appearing  to  attend  to  what  she  said.  But  later, 
after  he  had  bid  her  good  night  at  the  hotel,  only  the 
picture  of  her,  very  vivid,  clung  with  him.  He  felt 
emotional.  What  had  he  said  to  her  in  that  out 
burst  at  the  table?  He  had  told  her  he  felt  as 
though  the  old  days  had  come  back.  What  did  that 
mean?  Instantly  his  memory  responded  to  the 
question  in  a  vivid  flash  of  recollection.  Again  he 
saw  the  green  bench  under  the  syringas  at  the  ten 
nis  club,  with  her  sitting  there  beside  him;  but  the 
Janie  in  this  picture  was  no  longer  the  slim  young 
creature  in  pink  tulle  —  she  was  a  woman  in  a  won 
derful  blue  evening  gown;  a  woman  like  a  lovelier 
elder  sister  of  her  former  self. 

What  had  he  meant  when  he  had  said  to  her  to- 
112 


DINER  A  DEUX 

night  that  it  seemed  as  though  the  old  days  had 
come  back  ?  Had  he  not  loved  her  in  the  old  days  ? 
And  if  the  old  days  had  come  back,  did  not  that 
mean  he  loved  her  still?  It  could  mean  nothing 
else.  And  she  had  sat  and  listened,  gazing  at  him 
steadily  with  the  grave,  wondering  look  of  one 
whose  dream  comes  true. 

"That's  what  I  told  her  — and  it's  so!"  he 
said  aloud,  dropping  to  a  seat  on  the  side  of  his  bed 
and  fixing  his  eyes  in  a  vacant  stare  on  the  opposite 
wall  of  the  room.  "  My  God !  I  'm  in  love 
again !  " 

Then,  with  a  great  sigh,  he  leaned  over  and 
pressed  the  button  that  put  out  the  light. 

Next  morning,  before  going  in  to  breakfast,  he 
looked  for  a  long  moment  at  the  photograph  of 
Molly  and  the  children  which  stood  on  his  mantel 
piece,  and  after  breakfast,  before  going  downtown, 
he  went  and  looked  at  it  again.  Somehow  it  reas 
sured  him  to  look  at  Molly.  She  seemed  so  real. 
His  love  for  her  was  like  a  candle  burning  always  in 
a  deep  recess  of  his  heart.  It  was  a  calm,  steady 
flame.  But  Janie !  She  was  a  flaring  torch  within 
him.  And  it  was  of  the  torch  that  he  was  keenly 
conscious.  It  shone  in  the  dark  places  and  made 


AFTER  THIRTY 

him  feel  alive.  How  long  it  was  since  he  had  felt 
like  that!  All  day  he  thought  of  Janie.  All  day 
he  wished  to  telephone  to  her,  to  see  her. 

"  But  I  ought  not  to!  "  he  assured  and  reassured 
himself.  "It  won't  do!" 

Yet  she  had  asked  him  to  run  in  any  time.  And 
it  would  be  so  easy  to  stop  off  for  a  minute  on  the 
way  uptown  —  so  easy  and  so  nice. 

"  But  I  must  n't !  "  he  told  himself  as  he  left  the 
office  to  go  home ;  and  "  I  must  n't !  "  he  told  himself 
again  as  he  went  into  the  subway,  and  as  he 
emerged  from  it  at  Times  Square,  and  as,  with  rapid 
steps,  he  walked  straight  toward  her  hotel. 


114 


CHAPTER  XIV 

THE    REHEARSAL 

HAVING  become  a  theatrical  lawyer  —  at  least 
to  the  extent  of  looking  after  certain  business 
matters  for  a  lady  shortly  to  become  a  star  on  Broad 
way  —  it  occurred  to  Higgins,  a  few  days  later,  that 
it  would  be  suitable  for  him  to  witness  a  rehearsal  of 
"  The  Journey."  Consequently,  instead  of  going  to 
the  club  according  to  his  usual  habit,  he  presented 
himself,  late  one  afternoon,  at  the  stage  door  of  the 
theater  in  which  Janie  played. 

The  doorman,  seated  as  usual  on  a  kitchen  chair 
tilted  back  against  the  board  wall  of  the  vestibule 
that  formed  his  kennel,  looked  up  with  his  habitual 
hostility  but,  recognizing  Higgins,  allowed  that  ex 
pression  to  be  replaced  immediately  by  one  of  in 
finite  indifference,  which  was  the  nearest  to  civility 
the  doorman  ever  got. 

"  Ruhursun' !  "  he  said,  nodding  his  head  toward 
the  stage. 

Higgins  walked  in.     Inside,  the  light  was  rather 

"5 


AFTER  THIRTY 

dim.  The  stage  was  bare  of  furniture  save  for 
some  kitchen  chairs  distributed  at  each  side  and  a 
table  and  two  chairs  at  the  center  near  the  footlights. 
In  one  of  these  chairs  sat  the  manager  whose  name 
would  presently  appear  on  the  billboards  as  "  pre 
senting  "  Janie,  and  in  the  other  sat  the  stage  direc 
tor,  holding  in  his  hand  a  manuscript  bound  in  a 
light  blue  paper  cover.  The  chairs  in  the  back 
ground  were  occupied  by  members  of  the  company. 
Janie  was  standing  near  the  table,  and  a  few  steps 
distant  from  it  stood  the  too-good-looking  English 
man  who  was  her  leading  man.  He  was  expostulat 
ing  with  the  stage  director : 

"  But,  I  mean  to  say,  how  can  I  come  on  center 
if  I  'm  the  lover,  and  the  husband,  who  is  jealous 
of  me,  has  just  made  his  exit  there?  I  'd  have  to 
run  onto  him  in  the  hall  —  what  ?  " 

The  other  pondered  for  a  moment     Then : 

"  I  tell  you,"  he  decided,  "  we  '11  have  the  husband 
exit  right,  instead." 

At  that,  a  middle-aged  actor  who  had  been  sit 
ting  over  by  the  dressing  rooms  rose  and  approached 
the  table. 

"  But  the  right  entrance  leads  to  the  dining  room," 
he  protested  mildly.  "  I  can't  very  well  go  off 

116 


THE  REHEARSAL 

there,  can  I,  when  I  'm  going  to  the  House  of  Com 
mons?" 

"  We  '11  cover  that  with  a  line,"  explained  the 
stage  director.  "  You  can  say :  '  I  'm  going  out  by 
the  side  door  ' —  that  '11  fix  it." 

"  But  the  audience  knows  it 's  the  dining  room," 
said  the  actor. 

"  Well,"  said  the  stage  director  in  a  tired  voice, 
"  there  is  n't  any  reason  why  there  can't  be  a  side 
door  there,  is  there?  I  tell  you  it 's  all  right.  And 
Claire  can  get  it  over  that  you  've  gone  out,  by  look 
ing  out  the  window,  left,  and  waving  to  you  in  the 
street.  See  ?  "  Then,  turning  to  Janie,  he  asked : 
"  Do  you  get  that,  Claire?  " 

She  nodded. 

"  Would  n't  it  be  a  good  touch  there  if  she  was 
to  throw  him  a  kiss?  "  suggested  the  manager. 

"  Bully !  "  said  the  stage  director.  "  Come  on ; 
we  '11  try  it  over  like  that.  Everybody  ready?  " 

The  middle-aged  actor  turned  the  pages  of  his 
part,  scanning  them  hurriedly. 

"  Let 's  see,"  he  pondered  aloud.  "  I  '11  have  to 
have  my  hat  and  coat.  I  can  take  them  from  a 
chair.  Yes;  that  will  b«  all  right.  Where  do  we 
begin?" 

117 


AFTER  THIRTY 

"  Give  him  the  cue,  Miss  Vaughan,"  said  the  stage 
director.  "  The  speech  about  '  Whatever  may  hap 
pen  I  hope  you  '11  always  think  of  me  as  one  who ' 
— and  so  on.  Just  the  cue." 

"  All  right,"  she  responded,  moving  toward  the 
front.  Then,  in  a  louder  voice  she  declaimed,  "  Bla, 
bla,  bla  —  and  a  long  speech  ending  with :  '  Be 
cause  you  've  always  been  too  good  for  a  woman 
like  me.'  " 

"  '  Don't  say  that,  dear  child ! '  "  the  middle-aged 
actor  read  elaborately.  Then,  advancing  in  a  stately 
manner  he  leaned  and  kissed  the  air  near  Janie's 
cheek.  "  '  And  now  I  must  go  to  the  House.  We 
shall  be  sitting  late  to-night.  Do  not  wait  up  for 
me.'  "  There  he  paused  and  looked  at  the  stage 
director,  asking :  "  Is  that  where  the  new  line 
comes  in  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  '  I  'm  going  out  by  the  side  door,' "  he  resumed. 
Then,  taking  a  few  steps,  he  added  with  the  air  of 
an  old  dotard :  "  '  Good  night,  my  love ! ' 

Janie  had  turned  slowly,  following  him  with  her 
eyes  as  he  moved  off. 

"  '  Good  night ! '  "  she  said  in  a  tense  voice. 

Then,  as  the  other  went  back  to  his  corner  and  sat 
118 


THE  REHEARSAL 

down,  she  moved  slowly  to  the  opposite  side  of  the 
stage,  stood  there  for  a  moment  looking  down,  and 
threw  a  kiss  at  the  floor. 

"  That  will  be  your  cue  to  enter,"  called  the  stage 
director  to  the  leading  man  — "  when  she  throws 
him  the  kiss  out  of  the  window.  See  ?  "  Then, 
turning  to  Janie:  "Do  it  again,  please  —  just  the 
kiss." 

Again  Janie  threw  a  downward  kiss,  whereat  im 
mediately  the  leading  man  strode  forward  from  the 
back.  Slowly  Janie  turned.  One  hand  ascended 
to  her  bosom. 

'  You! '  "  she  cried.     It  was  the  beginning  of 
the  "  big  scene  "of  the  play. 

To  Higgins  the  scene  explained  itself.  Janie,  the 
Claire  of  the  play,  was  the  young  wife  of  an  elderly 
Member  of  Parliament.  She  had  been  married  to 
him  by  her  mother  before,  as  one  of  her  own  lines 
put  it,  she  "  knew  what  love  was."  Then  the  young 
novelist,  played  by  the  leading  man,  had  —  to  quote 
the  play  again — "come  into- her  life."  Through 
the  first  and  second  acts  she  had  fought  against 
temptation ;  but  they  had  been  thrown  together  con 
stantly,  and  now,  between  his  passionate  appeals  and 
her  own  guilty  longings,  she  was  prepared  "  to  make 

119 


AFTER  THIRTY 

the  greatest  sacrifice  a  woman  can  offer  on  the  altar 
of  true  love  " —  by  which  apparently  the  playwright 
meant  to  indicate  that  she  would  go  away  with  the 
lover. 

Her  speech  was  a  long  one.  The  first  part  of  it 
was  designed  to  get  sympathy  for  her.  It  was  full 
of  .self-pity  and  contrition;  but  the  climax  of  the 
speech,  and  of  the  play,  came  only  with  the  last  few 
sentences : 

"  '  We  were  made  for  each  other  —  you  and  I ! 
You  have  told  me  so;  but  until  now  —  until  I  saw 
that  look  come  into  your  eyes  —  I  never  felt  quite 
sure.  Love  has  been  too  strong  for  us !  Take  me ! 
I  am  yours  to  do  with  as  you  will !  Since  I  cannot 
belong  to  you  under  the  canons  of  the  church,  I  give 
myself  into  your  keeping,  now  and  forever,  under 
the  higher  law ! '  " 

The  leading  man  stepped  forward  and  took  her  in 
a  perfunctory  embrace. 

"'At  last!'" 

"  '  Yes ! '  '  she  continued.  "  '  I  will  go  away 
with  you  now  —  to-night!  It  is  good-by  to  the 
world,  Laurence!  By  the  day  after  to-morrow  we 
shall  be  exiles  —  forever  —  in  my  villa  at  Lu 
gano!'" 

120 


THE  REHEARSAL 

When  she  had  spoken  the  last  words  Janie  turned 
swiftly  toward  the  two  men  at  the  table.  They 
looked  depressed. 

"It  isn't  right!"  she  exclaimed.  "The  script 
says,  '  With  infinite  pathos  ' ;  but  it  should  n't  be 
pathos.  I  've  felt  that  all  along.  It  wants  fire. 
Let  me  try  it  again." 

"Yes,"  agreed  the  stage  director.  "Try  fire." 
Then,  to  the  leading  man :  "  Give  her  the  cue." 

"  Long  speech  —  then :  '  Cherish  you  for  all 
eternity! '  "  said  the  leading  man  with  offhand  glib- 
ness  ;  and  Janie  began  the  speech  again. 

In  the  first  few  lines  her  voice  carried  a  quality 
of  intense  calmness;  but,  as  she  continued,  passion 
seemed  to  mount  in  her  until,  toward  the  last,  she 
spoke  in  words  of  flame. 

During  her  first  reading  of  the  speech  Higgins 
had  listened  unmoved.  He  thought  Janie  read  the 
lines  as  well  as  any  one  could  read  them ;  but  it  did 
not  seem  to  him  that  any  rendering,  however  good, 
could  impart  to  them  the  quality  of  truth.  They 
were  not  real.  They  consisted  merely  of  words 
strung  together  into  phrases,  false,  feeble  cant;  but 
now,  as  she  swung  through  the  speech  in  the  new 
key  he  was  amazed  to  find  himself  responding  to  it, 

121 


AFTER  THIRTY 

feeling  it  electrically.  It  was  as  though  the  hack 
neyed  words  and  phrases  had  been  welded  together 
by  the  fire  she  put  into  them  —  converted  from  dead 
fragments  into  a  vivid,  white-hot  unit. 

Unlifelike  as  the  last  lines  were,  he  felt  himself 
strangely  moved  as  she  spoke  them : 

"  *  Yes !  I  will  go  away  with  you  now  —  to 
night!  It  is  good-by  to  the  world,  Laurence!  By 
the  day  after  to-morrow  we  shall  be  exiles  —  for 
ever  —  in  my  villa  at  Lugano ! ' 

What  nonsense!     Yet  it  stirred  him. 

"  Bully !  "  cried  the  manager,  smiling  broad  ap 
proval. 

"That's  the  stuff,  Miss  Vaughan!"  exclaimed 
the  stage  director,  leaping  from  his  chair.  "  Fire 
does  the  trick!  You're  going  to  be  immense  iii 
this  part."  Then,  turning  to  the  other  players: 
"  Eleven  o'clock  to-morrow  morning !  " 

Higgins  stepped  forward  to  meet  Janie  as  she 
moved  toward  the  stage  door.  Her  face  lighted  as 
she  caught  sight  of  him. 

"  Have  you  been  here  long?  "  she  asked. 

"  Half  an  hour  or  so." 

"  That  was  the  third-act  climax  we  were  trying," 
she  said.  "  What  do  you  think  of  it?  " 

122 


THE  REHEARSAL 

He  told  her  how  it  had  affected  him. 

"  As  I  was  sitting  there,  watching,"  he  said,  "  it 
struck  me  that  the  written  play  is  like  a  dead  wire. 
The  actor  is  the  current.  And  it  must  be  just  the 
right  kind  of  current  or 

"  Or  the  whole  thing  is  short-circuited,"  she  fin 
ished  for  him. 

Then,  as  Higgins  had  come  to  talk  with  her  con 
cerning  business  —  so  he  explained  —  and  as  the 
theater  somehow  did  not  seem- to  be  the  place  for 
that,  he  left  the  building  with  her  and  walked  at  her 
side  in  the  direction  of  her  hotel.  And,  as  often 
happened  now  when  he  came  to  see  her  about  busi 
ness,  they  did  not  mention  business  but  talked  of 
other  things. 

"  I  've  been  afraid  of  that  climax,"  she  told  him. 
'  The  lines  are  so  false." 

"  They  are  false  as  they  're  written,"  he  said  hon 
estly,  "  but  not  as  you  speak  them." 

She  gave  him  a  grateful  smile,  and  answered : 

'  You  can  always  be  my  lawyer  if  you  talk  like 
that." 

"  I  'm  not  flattering.     I  'm  just  judicial." 

"  Thanks  again.  But  did  you  ever  hear  such 
lines  ?  "  She  ran  over  the  last  speech.  "  Just  think 

123 


AFTER  THIRTY 

of  saying  things  like  that !  And  Lugano !  In  these 
English  plays  the  guilty  couple  always  fly  to  Lugano. 
No  real  woman  could  talk  as  Claire  does !  I  'm 
Claire,  you  know.  The  lover  is  a  novelist.  He  's 
supposed  to  have  some  sense.  If  she  talked  to  him 
like  that  he  'd  say  to  himself :  '  This  has  been  a 
mistake !  I  'm  not  going  to  run  away  with  a  senti 
mental  fool !  She  'd  bore  me  to  death  in  a  week ! ' 
He  'd  be  scared  out.  He  'd  quit  before  she  got  half 
through  that  speech." 

"  Ah,  but  you  have  n't  heard  yourself  read  it," 
Higgins  said.  "  And  you  have  n't  seen  how  you 
look.  He  would  n't  quit  —  not  with  you.  No 
body  would.  If  you  ever  want  to  prove  that  just 
try  it  on  me.  You  '11  find  I  'd  go  to  Lugano  fast 
enough." 

"  I  '11  remember  that,"  she  said  as  they  reached 
the  door  of  the  hotel,  "  in  case  I  ever  want  to  go  to 
Lugano.  Meantime,  won't  you  come  in  ?  " 

The  invitation  may  have  brought  to  Higgins' 
mind  the  business  he  had  come  to  talk  about.  At 
all  events  he  entered  and  was  wafted  with  her  to  the 
upper  floor  on  which  she  had  her  snug  apartment. 

The  colored  maid  who  attended  Janie  at  the  thea 
ter  admitted  them  to  the  pretty  little  parlor  of  the 

124 


THE  REHEARSAL 

suite  and,  taking  Janie's  coat  and  furs,  went  with 
them  to  the  adjoining  room. 

Janie  moved  to  the  table  by  the  window  and  put 
her  face  down  to  a  bowl  of  full-blown  pink  roses. 

"  See  how  beautifully  your  flowers  are  keeping," 
she  said;  but  Higgins'  eyes  traveled  to  the  mantel 
piece. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  "  and  I  see  you  Ve  acquired 
another  new  embellishment  since  I  was  here  last." 

"Shelley's  picture,  you  mean?" 

He  nodded,  smiling. 

"  Shelley  's  a  dear.  It 's  lovely  to  see  him  again. 
You  know  we  used  to  be  no  end  sentimental  about 
each  other  years  ago.  He  jilted  me  outrageously 
—  the  wretch !  I  wept  for  three  days,  I  remember. 
But  he's  a  dear,  just  the  same  —  a  susceptible 
dear." 

"  Exactly  that,"  Higgins  agreed  with  a  broaden 
ing  smile. 

"  Is  his  wife  nice?  " 

"  Adorable,"  said  Higgins.  "  And  do  you  know 
what  I  promised  her  —  the  last  thing,  just  as  she 
was  leaving?  " 

"  That  you  'd  look'after  him?  " 

"  That  I  'd  see  he  did  n't  get  into  any  heart  en- 
125 


AFTER  THIRTY 

tanglements  while  she  was  gone.  Do  you  think 
I  'm  going  to  be  able  to  keep  my  word  ?  " 

"Why  not?" 

"  I  just  wanted  to  ask  your  opinion,"  he  went  on, 
"  because  I  also  told  Molly  that  I  'd  do  it  even  if  I 
had  to  cut  him  out  myself." 

Janie  gave  him  a  swift  sidelong  glance;  then, 
laughing  mischievously,  she  answered : 

"  Oh,  if  you  put  it  like  that  —  and  if  you  mean 
me  —  of  course  I  advise  extreme  measures  to  rescue 
him." 

As  she  spoke  the  telephone  rang  and  she  took 
down  the  receiver. 

"  Tell  him  to  come  up,"  Higgins  heard  her  say. 
Then  she  turned  to  him :  "  It 's  Shelley  calling 
now." 

"  I  '11  just  run  along,"  said  the  obliging  Higgins, 
moving  to  get  his  hat  and  coat. 

"  I  wish  you  would  n't." 

He  glanced  at  his  watch. 

"  I  really  ought  to,"  he  said.  "  I  have  a  lot 
of  little  things  to  do  and  I  'm  dining  out  rather 
early." 

He  stood  for  a  moment  hatching  her  as  she 
crossed  the  room  and  touched  the  button  that 

126 


THE  REHEARSAL 

switched  on  the  soft  pink-shaded  lights.  Then 
there  came  a  rap  at  the  door. 

"Shall  I?"  he  asked. 

She  nodded.     He  opened  the  door. 

"Why,  hello,  Hig!"  cried  Wickett  heartily. 
"  What  are  you  doing  up  he^re  —  eh  ?  " 

"  Business,"  Higgins  smiled.     "  Just  going." 

"Oh,"  said  Wickett.  "Sorry."  Then  in  a 
playful  tone  he  spoke  to  Janie,  who  had  come  for 
ward  to  greet  him :  "  Is  n't  he  a  good  little  lawyer?  " 

"  He  has  done  a  great  deal  for  me,"  she  said. 

"  That 's  right,  Hig,"  approved  Wickett  with  an 
expansive  and  fatherly  air  as  he  helped  his  friend 
into  his  overcoat.  "  You  take  good  care  of  her,  old 
man.  Anything  you  do  for  her  you  do  for  me,  you 
know." 

"  I  Ve  not  forgotten  that,"  said  the  lawyer,  smil 
ing.  Then  he  turned  to  Janie :  "  I  '11  have  the 
papers  up  for  you  to  look  over  in  the  morning,  Miss 
Vaughan." 

The  remark  might  have  struck  Janie  as  peculiar 
—  since  there  were  no  papers  to  be  looked  over  — 
but  she  received  it  with  solemn  equanimity. 

"  Thank  yo,u,  Mr.  Higgins." 

"  Good  old  Hig!  "  mused  Wickett  aloud  after  his 
127 


AFTER  THIRTY 

friend  had  departed.  "  He 's  all  business,  is  n't 
he." 

"  Isn't  that  a  good  quality  in  a  lawyer?  "  Janie 
suggested  with  gravity. 

"Of  course,"  Wickett  assented;  "but  I  was 
thinking  that  if  I  were  your  lawyer  I  could  n't  just 
come  in  here  and  talk  to  you  about  business,  and 
papers  to  be  signed  on  the  dotted  line,  and  dry  things 
like  that.  I  should  think  that  any  man  would  be 
bound  to  have  human  feelings  about  a  woman  like 
you." 

Janie  looked  abstractedly  at  the  roses,  but  did  not 
answer. 

"  By  the  way,"  said  Wickett  presently,  "  you  fixed 
up  your  contract  last  week,  did  n't  you?  " 

She  nodded. 

"  It 's  some  other  matters,  then,  he  's  looking  after 
for  you  now  ?  " 

She  glanced  for  a  moment  toward  the  window. 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  "  some  little  matters  in  connec 
tion  with  a  villa  I've  been  thinking  of  —  at 
Lugano." 


128 


CHAPTER  XV 

A   VILLA   AT   LUGANO 

THE  world  beyond  the  window  had  now  become 
quite  dark,  save  for  the  intermittent  flashing, 
at  intervals  brief  and  regular,  of  a  vast  electric  sign 
on  the  roof  of  a  building  far  up  Broadway. 
Wickett  rose  and,  moving  across  the  room,  lifted  the 
lace  curtains  and  watched  the  glittering  advertise 
ment  appear  and  disappear.  Then  he  reached  up 
and  shut  the  heavy  draperies. 

"  Lugano  ?  "  he  repeated,  turning  toward  her. 
"  What  on  earth  has  made  you  think  about  a  place 
like  that?" 

"  Villas  there  are  scarce,"  she  said.  "  You  have 
to  pick  them  up  when  you  can." 

"  But  what  do  you  want  one  for  ?  For  vaca 
tions?" 

"  I  don't  know.  I  just  want  it.  I  might  want 
to  live  there  if  T  ever  left  the  stage." 

What  could  she  mean  ?  It  was  merely  an  attack 
129 


AFTER  THIRTY 

of  temperament,  he  supposed.  Artistic  people  did 
get  wild  ideas  now  and  then  —  he  was  enough  of  an 
artist  himself  to  know  that.  It  troubled  him 
strangely  to  hear  her  talk  of  going  away.  Impul 
sively  he  moved  back  to  the  couch  and  dropped  dpwn 
to  his  accustomed  place  at  her  side. 

"  Janie,"  he  said  gravely,  "  I  don't  like  to  hear 
you  talking  about  going  away.  You  've  a  wonder 
ful  career  just  ahead  of  you  right  here  in  New 
York.  And,  quite  aside  from  that,  I  don't  want 
you  to  go.  I  can't  spare  you." 

"  You  just  imagine  that,"  she  said. 

"No!" 

"  Yes,  you  do,"  she  insisted  gently,  "  just  as  you 
imagined  it  once  before,  for  a  little  while,  long  ago. 
But  you  got  over  it." 

"  No,  Janie,"  he  declared  intensely ;  "  I  did  n't ! 
That's  just  it!  You  were  the  first  woman  I  ever 
cared  for.  I  've  always  cared  for  you.  There  has 
never  been  anything  in  my  life  like  those  old  days 

when  we Oh,  Janie!  Think  of  the  country 

club,  and  the  little  green  bench,  and  the  syringas! 
Janie !  Janie !  I  care  for  you  now !  You  are  the 
one  great " 

"  You  do  care?  "  she  repeated,  turning  and  look- 
130 


A  VILLA  AT  LUGANO 

ing  at  him  with  eyes  wider  and  more  wondering,  it 
seemed  to  him,  than  he  had  ever  seen. 

"  I  do ! "  he  whispered  fervently,  leaning  a  little 
toward  her  and  putting  his  hand  over  hers. 

"You're  sure?" 

"  How  can  you  ask  it,  dear  ?  " 

"  Are  you  prepared  to  cherish  me  for  all  eter 
nity?" 

An  expression  of  something  like  amazement 
passed  across  Wickett's  face.  Involuntarily  he  re 
moved  his  hand  from  hers. 

"  Why "  he  began,  looking  vaguely  toward 

the  window ;  but  Janie  interrupted. 

"  We  were  made  for  each  other  —  you  and  I !  " 
she  declared,  leaning  toward  him  and  speaking  in  a 
passionate  voice.  "  You  have  told  me  so;  but  until 
now " 

"  I  did  n't  say  exactly  that,"  interposed  Wickett, 
who  now  was  leaning  back  from  her  against  the  arm 
of  the  couch. 

"  But  until  I  saw  that  look  in  your  eyes  I  never 
felt  quite  sure !  "  she  continued  vehemently.  "  Love 
has  been  too  strong  for  us !  Take  me !  I  am  yours 
to  do  with  as  you  will !  Since  I  cannot  belong  to 
you  under  the  canons  of  the  church,  I  give  myself 


AFTER  THIRTY 

into  your  keeping,  now  and  forever,  under  the 
higher  law ! " 

"  But,  Janie,"  cried  Wickett,  "  be  reasonable ! 
This  kind  of  thing  can't " 

Again  she  cut  him  off. 

'  Yes !  I  will  go  away  with  you  now  —  to 
night!  "  she  declared  in  a  tone  of  mounting  flame. 
"  It  is  good-by  to  the  world,  Shelley !  By  the  week 
after  next  we  shall  be  exiles  —  forever  —  in  my 
villa  at  Lugano !  " 

As  she  spoke  the  last  words  she  had  been  leaning 
nearer,  nearer.  Now,  to  his  horror,  she  flopped, 
rather  than  flung  herself,  across  his  shoulder. 

Hurriedly  Wickett  lifted  her.  Then,  rising 
swiftly  and  disentangling  himself,  he  stepped  back 
out  of  her  reach.  He  felt  sick,  shocked,  horrified, 
afraid.  So  this  was  what  the  stage  did  to  women! 
It  must  have  been  the  stage ;  she  had  n't  been  like 
that  as  a  girl;  none  of  the  other  women  he  had 
known  had  ever  jumped  to  conclusions  as  to  pre 
cisely  what  he  meant  when  he  made  love.  Evi 
dently  there  was  something  about  stage  life  that 
stripped  romance  of  all  its  delicacy,  all  its  illusory 
Duality,  and  left  only  passion  and  self-abandonment! 

132 


A  VILLA  AT  LUGANO 

"  We  must  think  of  others!  "  he  declared  from. a 
safe  distance. 

For  an  instant  Janie  looked  at  him  in  silence. 
Then,  raising  her  handkerchief  to  her  face,  she 
turned  away. 

"  We  cannot  live  for  ourselves  alone,"  continued 
Wickett,  praying  inwardly  that  she  was  not  about  to 
have  hysterics.  "  We  must  learn  to  bear  things, 
Janie,  because  of  our  responsibility  to  —  to  —  ah  - 
to  those  near  and  dear  to  us,  and  to  —  ah  —  to  so 
ciety  at  large." 

Even  as  he  spoke  he  felt  the  inefficiency  of  his 
expressions.  They  sounded  trite  in  his  own  ears. 
He  felt  the  need  of  saying  something  very  fine  and 
soothing  and  rich  in  the  quality  of  self-abnegation, 
but  could  think  of  nothing  in  the  least  appropriate. 
The  silence  became  awkward.  He  felt  a  mad  desire 
to  get  away. 

Janie  rose  slowly  and,  with  her  face  still  averted 
from  him,  walked  to  the  window,  parted  the  cur 
tains  and  stood  there  in  an  attitude  that  seemed  to 
him  tragic  beyond  all  words,  looking  out  on  the 
night. 

Wickett  went  slowly  to  the  chair  near  the  door 
133 


on  which  he  had  left  his  hat  and  coat.  Taking 
them  up,  he  moved  a  few  steps  toward  her.  Her 
back  was  turned.  She  did  not  move. 

"  Janie,"  he  said  in  a  sad  voice,  "  we  are  only 
torturing  ourselves!  I  had  better  go.  Yes,  that 
will  be  best !  " 

Still  holding  her  handkerchief  to  her  face  with 
one  hand  and  clutching  the  window  draperies  with 
the  other,  she  turned  her  head  a  little  and  nodded 
without  speaking. 

He  crossed  rapidly  to  her  and  lifted  his  hand  as 
though  to  place  it  on  her  shoulder.  Then,  on  second 
thought,  he  dropped  it  without  touching  her,  decid 
ing  it  was  wiser  not  to  —  because  you  can't  tell  what 
an  emotional  woman  will  do. 

"  I  only  want  to  say,"  he  told  her,  "  that  when  we 
meet  again  it  must  be  as  though  —  as  though  this  — • 
this  scene  had  never  been.  We  must  forget ! " 
Then,  having  read  somewhere  in  a  book  about  a 
parting  in  which  a  man  said  to  a  woman,  "  very 
simply,"  the  words,  "  I  am  going  now,"  he  said  them 
in  that  way.  "  Don't  you  think  that  will  be  best?  " 
he  appended.  The  latter  sentence  was  not  from  the 
book,  but  was  entirely  original  with  him. 

134 


A  VILLA  AT  LUGANO 

'  Yes,"  came  her  voice  faintly  from  behind  the 
handkerchief.  "  That  is  best." 

"  Good-by ! "  he  said,  turning.  Then,  feeling 
very  sorry  for  her,  he  added  as  he  reached  the  door : 
"  Good-by,  dear  girl !  " 

As  the  door  closed,  behind  him  Janie  turned, 
dropped  the  hand  in  which  she  held  the  handker 
chief,  and  revealed  a  face  which,  far  from  being 
tear-stained,  held  a  look  sweet,  humorous,  and  per 
haps  a  little  reminiscent  too ;  for  in  her  mind  there 
was  the  recollection  of  another  parting  with  him 
long  ago,  on  an  occasion  anything  but  humorous. 
That  time  she  had  wept  with  pity  for  herself  and 
jealous  heartburnings  over  the  girl  who  had  so  ruth 
lessly  inveigled  him  away.  How  she  had  hated  that 
girl !  She  smiled  now  as  she  remembered.  And 
after  the  smile  had  faded  from  her  face  there  still 
remained  an  expression  of  good  will  and  gentle 
mirth  —  the  look  of  a  person  who  has  done  a  good 
action  in.  secret  and  enormously  enjoyed  doing  it. 

Her  action  always  was  a  secret  —  so  secret,  in 
deed,  that,  though  there  came  a  time  when  she  told 
Higgins  almost  everything  else,  she  never  told  him 

135 


AFTER  THIRTY 

of  this  benefaction,  or  let  him  have  the  smallest  hint 
of  how  she  had  proved  to  her  own  satisfaction  that 
the  unnatural  speech  she  made  in  the  third-act  cli 
max  of  "  The  Journey  "  was  enough  —  as  she  had 
thought  it  would  be  —  to  drive  a  man  away. 


136 


CHAPTER  XVI 

PROBABLY   PIQUE 

IN  order  to  keep  Shelley  in  the  dark  concerning 
the  true  nature  of  her  emotional  performance  on 
the  occasion  of  her  last  sight  of  him,  Janie  realized 
that  she  must  prevent  his  seeing  the  new  play,  with 
its  revealing  third-act  climax. 

She  telephoned  him. 

Realizing  that  it  was  her  voice  on  the  wire,  he  be 
came  nervous  lest  she  were  beginning  to  pursue  him, 
but  on  that  point  he  was  quickly  reassured. 

"  I  just  wanted  to  ask  you,"  she  said,  "  not  to 
come  to  see  '  The  Journey  '  at  first." 

"  But  I  was  planning  to  be  at  the  first  night,"  he 
said.  "  I  thought  Hig  and  I  would  go  together." 

"  It  occurred  to  me  you  might  have  some  such 
plan,"  she  went  on.  "  That 's  why  I  called  you  up. 
It 's  good  in  you  to  want  to  be  there,  Shelley.  But 
don't  you  understand  how  I  feel  ?  " 

"  You  mean,"  he  suggested,  "  that  it  would  make 

137 


AFTER  THIRTY 

you  nervous  if  you  realized  I  was  in  the  audience?  " 

"Well  — yes." 

"  But  you  would  n't  want  me  not  to  see  you  in  the 
play  at  all?  You  won't  mind  my  going  after  it  is 
well  under  way?  " 

"Not  so  much,  perhaps  —  if  it  succeeds.  But 
I  'm  not  sure,  even  about  that.  I  want  you  to 
promise  me  not  to  see  it  until  I  tell  you  that  I  feel 
differently." 

"  Of  course  I  '11  promise  if  that  is  what  you  wish," 
he  answered,  feeling  very  gentle  toward  her.  "  But 
yt>u  '11  get  over  that  idea,  I  'm  sure,  Janie.  You 
must,  you  know.  Molly  will  be  home  from  Florida 
in  a  couple  of  weeks  more.  I  want  her  to  see  you 
in  the  play.  And  we  must  all  get  together,  of 
course." 

"  Of  course  I  'm  eager  to  meet  her,"  Janie  an 
swered.  "  But  I  have  your  promise  not  to  see  '  The 
Journey  '  until  I  say  you  may  ?  " 

"  Certainly." 

"  Thanks,  Shelley.     You  're  a  dear." 

Though  the  critics,  as  before,  dealt  kindly  with 
Janie's  performance,  they  pronounced  the  new  play 
mawkish  —  a  judgment  with  which  the  star  herself 

138 


PROBABLY  PIQUE 

agreed.  At  the  end  of  one  week  "  The  Journey  " 
was  withdrawn,  an  acknowledged  failure. 

Shelley  Wickett  never  saw  it. 

That,  from  Janie's  point  of  view,  was  one  advan 
tage  of  the  failure,  but  not  the  only  one.  The  chief 
advantage  lay  in  the  fact  that  her  manager  was  so 
disheartened  by  this  second  disappointment  that,  in 
a  moment  of  depression,  he  agreed  to  her  proposal 
that  the  contract  between  them  be  cancelled.  For  be 
it  noted  that,  in  the  eight  weeks  intervening  between 
the  signing  of  the  contract  and  the  failure  of  "  The 
Journey,"  the  ambitions,  even  the  immediate  plans, 
of  the  star  had  undergone  a  change  unexpected  and 
extreme. 

Janie  had  always  said  that  domestic  life  was  prac 
tically  impossible  on  the  stage.  She  had  always 
known  that  if  she  ever  married  she  would  leave  the 
stage.  And  now,  at  last,  in  the  person  of  the  lawyer 
who  had  drawn  the  contract  which  might  have  made 
it  difficult  for  her  to  abandon  her  career,  she  had  met 
for  the  first  tirfie  a  man  for  whom  she  was  willing 
to  do  so. 

The  engagement  was  announced  a  few  weeks  after 
Molly  Wiokett's  return  from  Florida.  And  some 
months  later,  in  the  Wicketts'  living-room,  with 

139 


AFTER  THIRTY 

Shelley  as  best  man  and  Molly  as  matron  of  honor, 
the  beautiful  Janie  Vaughan  became  Mrs.  Archibald 
Framingham  Higgins. 

Even  then,  Shelley  had  no  suspicion  of  the  truth 
about  that  poignant  scene  that  he  had  had  with 
Janie.  No  one  hoped  more  than  he  that  the  match 
would  turn  out  well.  And  he  believed  it  would. 
Higgins  was  no  Adonis,  but  he  was  true  blue.  And 
steady.  Steadiness,  it  seemed  to  Shelley,  was  a 
quality  very  essential  in  the  make-up  of  any  man 
who  should  marry  Janie.  So  that  much  was  all 
right.  As  for  Janie  —  well,  he  could  never  forget 
that  she  was  an  old  sweetheart  of  his.  He  would 
always  be  fond  of  her.  No  less  for  her  sake  than 
for  dear  old  Hig's  he  would  try  to  obliterate  from 
his  mind  the  memory  of  her  one  wild  moment;  to  re 
gard  it  as  something  that  had  never  been. 

But  before  finally  abandoning  the  memory  to  ob 
livion,  he  presented  himself  with  one  harmless  little 
bit  of  consolation.  It  was  only  a  thought.  And  the 
thought  was  that  this  marriage,  which  old  Hig  so 
plainly  and  jubilantly  regarded  as  a  triumph  of  his 
own,  and  which  promised  so  well  for  the  future, 
was,  nevertheless,  in  all  probability,  the  result  of 
pique. 

140 


PRORABLY  PIQUE 

Even  after  Shelley  had  forgotten  where  the  feel 
ing  came  from,  even  after  the  memory  of  that  twi 
light  scene  in  the  hotel  had  been  practically  abol 
ished  from  his  mind,  even  then  there  remained  with 
him,  as  a  residuum  left  by  the  experience,  a  certain 
caution  he  had  never  known  before. 

Women,  he  now  definitely  understood,  were  emo 
tional.  That  was  true  even  of  very  fine  women, 
like  —  well,  like  any  fine  woman ;  he  was  n't  think 
ing  of  any  woman  in  particular.  No.  It  was  just  a 
general  truth  —  a  good  one  for  a  man  to  recognize. 
You  could  n't  be  sure  What  a  woman  would  do. 
Emotionally  aroused  any  woman  was  dangerous. 

Whether  or  not  it  was  this  philosophy  alone  which 
kept  him  in  the  path  of  piety  for  the  next  two  years, 
would  be  difficult  to  say.  He  himself  was  at  times 
disposed  to  think  that  advancing  age  was  responsible 
for  the  phenomenon.  The  thought  was  not  pleasant 
to  him  —  especially  in  the  springtime.  Could  it  in 
deed  be  that,  with  the  late  thirties,  a  man  would  set- 

« 

tie  down  to  a  state  of  sweetly  monotonous,  perma 
nent,  marital  placidity?  In  a  way,  of  course,  he 
hoped  so;  but  in  another  way  he  most  fervently 
hoped  not. 

141 


AFTER  THIRTY 

And  then  when  he  was  thirty-nine  years  old,  and 
the  future  looked  quite  hopeless  in  the  matter  of 
divertissement,  came  the  Morvens'  invitation  to 
Molly,  and  her  six  weeks'  trip  with  them,  and  his 
curious,  unconventional  meeting  with  Maida  Green 
wood. 


142 


CHAPTER  XVII 

THE   ENNOBLING    INFLUENCE 

WICKETT  was  in  the  midst  of  one  of  his  long 
telephonic  chats  with  Maida  Greenwood 
when  his  wife's  telegram  was  brought  in  by  the  office 
boy  and  laid  upon  the  desk  before  him.  He  found 
the  coincidence  distasteful. 

"  Of  course  we  can  dine  out  if  you  really  want 
to,"  Maida  was  saying  in  reply  to  the  suggestion  he 
had  made,  "  but  would  n't  you  rather  have  dinner 
at  our  little  table  in  my  studio  window  ?  I  'm  sure 
you  know  I  love  to  cook  for  you." 

While  she  was  speaking  Wickett's  eye  took  in  the 
typewritten  dispatch.  It  was  dated  San  Francisco, 
and  read  as  follows: 

SHELLEY  WICKETT 

WICKETT  COFFEE  CO  1 1  BROADWAY  N  Y 
LEAVING    THIS    AFTERNOON      DUE    NEW     YORK 

TUESDAY     5     P    M       TRIP    DELIGHTFUL    EXCEPT     FOR 

143 


AFTER  THIRTY 

YOUR    ABSENCE      EAGER    FOR    HOME      LOVE    TO    YOU 
AND  CHILDREN  MOLLY 

9  26  A  M 

A  sigh  escaped  him.  It  was  such  a  sigh  as  might 
come  from  a  man  who  in  his  partner's  absence  has 
speculated  with  the  firm's  funds  and  who  has  just 
been  told  his  margin  is  exhausted.  And  that,  fig 
uratively,  was  precisely  Shelley  Wickett's  situation. 
He  had  been  gambling,  though  not  with  money  or  in 
Wall  Street.  While  his  domestic  partner  was  away 
he  had  once  more  taken  a  flyer  in  Sentimental  Ad 
venture  Preferred,  and,  as  usual,  had  got  in  deeper 
than  he  had  intended.  And  now  his  wife  was  com 
ing  home  and  he  must  manage  to  —  to  arrange 
things  somehow. 

"What's  the  matter,  Shelley?"  came  Maida's 
gentle  voice  over  the  wire. 

"Nothing.     Why?" 

"  You  sighed." 

"Did  I?  It  was  a  happy  sigh,  then.  I  was 
thinking  how  much  nicer  your  studio  will  be  than  a 
restaurant.  Only  I  'm  ashamed  of  my  selfishness 
at  letting  you  get  dinner  for  us  again  to-night.  It 
makes  the  third  night  running." 

144 


THE  ENNOBLING  INFLUENCE 

"  But  you  're  not  selfish !  You  know  I  love  to 
have  you  here.  What  time  will  you  come?  " 

"About  seven." 

"  I  '11  have  dinner  ready  at  seven  sharp." 

Wickett  smiled  as  he  hung  up  the  receiver.  He 
knew  that  dinner  would  not  be  ready  when  he  got 
there.  It  never  was.  That  was  a  part  of  the 
pleasure  of  it.  She  would  come  running  to  the  door 
in  the  blue  smock,  daubed  with  paint,  that  served  her 
as  an  apron  for  the  practice  alike  of  the  graphic  and 
domestic  arts,  and  having  admitted  him  would 
scamper  back  to  the  kitchenette,  explaining  over  her 
shoulder,  as  she  went,  how  she  had  intended  to  be 
ready  when  he  came  but  how  this-and-that  had  hap 
pened  to  delay  her.  Though  he  had  known  her 
not  quite  six  weeks  he  was  already  well  aware  that 
this-and-that  were  always  happening  to  Maida. 
Then  he  would  go  and  lean  against  the  door  jamb 
while  she  cooked  —  there  was  room  for  but  one  per 
son  within  the  kitchenette;  and  occasionally  he 
would  be  allowed  to  help  by  getting  something  from 
the  tiny  ice  box  or  the  shelf  of  the  little  hall  closet 
called  by  courtesy  the  pantry.  She  would  be  sweet 
and  serious  and  busy  over  the  small  gas  stove  with 
its  blue  flame  licking  at  the  sides  of  pots  and  pans 


AFTER  THIRTY 

from  out  of  which  came  bubbling  sounds  and  steam 
and  appetizing  smells.  He  would  be  idle,  amused, 
admiring  —  yes,  and  a  little  in  the  way.  He  found 
it  curiously  delightful  to  be  just  a  little  in  her  way 
when  she  was  cooking;  the  propinquity,  the  infor 
mality,  the  sense  of  intimacy  thrilled  him;  it  was 
sweet  even  to  be  shooed  aside  with  mock  severity 
when  one  knew  well  that  it  was  mock  severity  — 
that  she  much  preferred  one  in  the  way  than  out  of 
it. 

His  prevision  proved  accurate  in  detail.  It  was  a 
quarter  past  seven  when  he  reached  the  summit  of 
four  flights  of  stairs  that  led  to  Maida's  little  studio 
apartment,  yet  there  he  found  the  smock,  the  haste, 
the  breathless  explanations  of  her  tardiness,  the 
smell  of  dinner  in  the  making,  the  pleasurable  inter 
val  of  loafing  near  her  in  the  doorway  while  she,  so 
pretty  and  preoccupied,  completed  preparation  of 
the  meal. 

Never  before  had  he  been  so  acutely  conscious  as 
to-night  of  Maida's  strongly  individual  charm,  of 
his  fondness  for  her,  of  the  dimensions  to  which,  in 
the  space  of  a  few  weeks,  had  grown  the  bond  be 
tween  them  —  the  thing  they  spoke  of  as  their 
friendship.  It  had  taken  Molly's  telegram  to  bring 

146 


THE  ENNOBLING  INFLUENCE 

him  to  some  realization  of  matters  as  they  stood  — 
and  as  they  could  no  longer  stand  when  Molly  was 
at  home  again. 

That  was  the  awkward  part  of  it.  He  had  not 
got  deliberately  into  this  entanglement.  On  the 
contrary,  until  Molly's  wire  came  he  would  n't  have 
called  it  an  entanglement  at  all.  He  had  n't 
thought  of  it  in  that  light;  nor,  for  the  matter  of 
that,  in  any  other  light.  It  was  not  something 
weighed,  measured,  considered  in  advance.  It  was 
not  even,  in  his  view,  something  he  had  done.  It 
was  a  matter  of  chance,  like  being  struck  by  a  falling 
piece  of  cornice  or  finding  a  hundred-dollar  bill  or 
catching  influenza.  Neither  he  nor  Maida  was  to 
blame. 

Blame?  Why  was  he  thinking  about  blame? 
Their  friendship,  though  undeniably  idyllic  and 
intense,  was  perfectly  proper  —  perfectly.  Being 
congenial  they  had  simply  fallen  into  the  way  of 
spending  much  time  together,  of  seeing  each  other 
daily.  But  why  should  they  not  do  that  —  espe 
cially  considering  the  sort  of  girl  that  Maida  was? 
She  was  fine ;  very,  very  fine !  Her  influence  upon 
him  was  ennobling.  Could  such  an  influence  pro 
duce  resentment  in  any  reasonable  wife? 


AFTER  THIRTY 

Blame?  Well,  if  there  was  any  blame  to  place, 
Molly  must  not  put  it  all  on  him  —  or  Maida.  She 
ought  to  bear  her  share.  Had  she  not  gone  off  on  a 
six  weeks'  junket  to  California  with  the  Morvens  in 
their  private  car?  To  be  sure,  she  had  hesitated  to 
accept  the  invitation;  to  be  sure,  also,  she  had  gone 
only  because  he  urged  her  need  of  rest  and  change. 
It  was  right  for  her  to  go;  he  was  not  disputing  that. 
But  the  fact  remained  that  she  had  gone,  and  that,  so 
doing,  she  had  left  him  all  this  time  at  loose  ends  in 
New  York.  Under  the  circumstances  what  was  he 
to  do?  Surely  she  did  not  expect  him  to  lead  a 
life  of  gloomy  isolation  while  she  was  faring 
through  the  golden  West?  Obviously  not;  for  she 
herself  had  sent  him  to  the  charity  bazaar. 

That  was  another  point  not  to  be  ignored. 
Though  Molly  had  not  as  yet  so  much  as  heard  of 
Maida,  nevertheless,  in  one  way  of  looking  at  it,  you 
might  say  it  was  through  Molly  that  he  and  Maida 
had  met;  for  if  Molly  had  not  left  the  tickets,  re 
questing  him  to  use  them,  he  would  not  have  gone 
to  the  bazaar;  and  had  he  not  done  that,  he  would 
now  be  no  more  aware  of  Maida's  existence  than 
Molly  herself  was. 

Finding  comfort  in  this  line  of  reasoning,  he  fol- 
148 


THE  ENNOBLING  INFLUENCE 

lowed  it,  perceiving  more  and  more  clearly  his  wife's 
responsibility.  Yet  at  the  same  time  he  realized 
dimly  that  for  him  to  perceive  it  was  one  thing,  and 
that  to  induce  her  to  perceive  it  might  be  quite 
another.  Women  are  so  emotional.  Everybody 
knows  that  they  are  governed  not  by  cold  logic,  but 
by  their  feelings.  And  wives  are  women  plus.  To 
make  them  see  a  thing  like  this  in  the  right  light,  one 
must  lead  them  along  slowly,  showing  them  step  by 
step  the  progression  of  facts.  And  that  is  difficult 
to  do  —  wherefore  it  is  the  tendency  of  husbands 
not  to  try.  Wickett  had  not  tried.  Subconsciously 
he  had  for  some  time  been  troubled  by  this  fact; 
now  it  began  to  trouble  him  acutely.  There  was  no 
question  about  it,  he  ought  to  have  prepared  the 
way  a  little  with  his  wife.  Yes,  and  with  Maida 
too. 

Of  course  he  had  made  it  a  point  to  tell  Maida 
he  was  married.  He  was  not  one  to  sail  under  false 
colors,  especially  with  such  a  girl.  He  had  gone 
out  of  his  way  to  indicate  his  matrimonial  bonds  on 
the  evening  he  met  her;  bringing  it  into  the  conver 
sation  rather  gracefully,  he  flattered  himself,  by  say 
ing  that  he  must  not  fail  to  take  his  children  down  to 
the  bazaar,  since  their  mother  was  spending  a  few 

149 


AFTER  THIRTY 

weeks  in  California.  Two  or  three  times  since  then 
he  had  repeated  the  mention  of  his  wife;  once,  for 
instance,  when  he  took,  as  a  gift  to  Maida,  two  out 
of  a  dozen  cans  of  ripe  olives  Molly  had  shipped 
home;  and  again  when  he  told  her  that  the  lamp 
shade  was  to  be  one  of  Molly's  Christmas  presents 
from  him. 

Still,  he  felt  he  had  not  said  enough.  He  had  not 
been  sufficiently  explicit.  He  feared  that  he  had 
failed  to  make  it  clear  enough  that  Molly  and  he 
were  on  the  best  of  terms;  that  they  were  not  in 
the  habit  of  leaving  each  other  for  weeks  at  a  time 
like  this;  that  she  had  gone  reluctantly,  and  only 
because  she  was  worn  out  with  long  unbroken  duty 
in  the  triple  role  of  housekeeper,  wife  and  mother. 

Not  that  he  had,  in  his  own  view,  given  Maida 
the  least  reason  to  suppose  that  he  and  Molly  might 
not  be  in  full  accord.  Heaven  forbid !  His  failure 
had  not  been  upon  the  negative  but  upon  the  positive 
side.  He  had  done  nothing  to  give  her  a  false  im 
pression,  but  he  was  beginning  to  fear  that  he  had 
not,  perhaps,  done  enough  to  give  her  an  unmistak 
ably  accurate  impression.  Little  revealing  utter 
ances  of  hers  had  of  late  disturbed  him  with  their 
vague  implications.  Did  she  expect  things  to  go  on 

150 


like  this  ?  Once  or  twice  when  they  had  spoken  of 
the  delightful  quality  of  their  companionship  instinct 
had  hinted  to  him  that  Maida  might  be  treasuring, 
down  in  her  heart,  the  illusion  that  she  filled  a  want 
in  his  nature  that  his  wife  failed  to  fill. 

In  a  sense,  of  course,  that  was  true ;  but  not  in  the 
sense  she  might  suppose.  Charmed  as  he  was  by 
her,  Wickett  realized  perfectly  that  the  want  she 
filled  was  merely  that  of  a  lonely  husband  for  sweet, 
sympathetic  and,  if  you  like,  gently  sentimental  com 
panionship.  It  had  been  lovely.  He  was  very  fond 
of  Maida.  He  hoped  they  always  might  be  friends. 
But  he  hoped  also  that  she  understood  that  this 
phase  of  the  affair  —  this  very  urgent  phase  —  was 
temporary,  and  would  soon  be  over. 

But  how,  pray,  is  one  to  make  a  lovely,  sensitive, 
proud  girl  see  a  thing  like  that  ?  To  be  blunt  would 
be  to  ruin  a  relationship  ineffably  beautiful  and  deli 
cate.  Unthinkable !  Fancy  seeing  a  girl  like  Maida 
day  after  day,  dining  with  her,  either  at  home  or  in 
a  restaurant,  every  evening  for  ten  days  running,  as 
he  had  done,  and  breaking  in  at  intervals  with  some 
such  statement  as,  "  You  should  keep  continually  in 
mind  while  we  are  enjoying  these  little  parties  a 
deux  that  I  love  my  wife  and  that  she  loves  me. 


AFTER  THIRTY 

You  must  not  allow  yourself  to  become  enamored  of 
me,  but  must  understand  that,  charming  as  you  are, 
you  are  merely  a  stop-gap." 

Expressed  in  that  way,  the  very  thought  was,  of 
course,  grotesque;  but  even  if  it  were  expressed 
quite  differently,  if  it  were  indicated  with  the  utmost 
tact,  the  priggishness,  the  banality,  the  awful  awk 
wardness  of  the  essential  meaning  could  not  be  ob 
scured. 

How  he  loathed  awkwardness  in  matters  of  this 
kind!  There  came  to  him  unpleasant  recollections 
of  Mrs.  Railey  and  a  Mrs.  Brundage.  With  both 
of  them  he  had  tried  to  avoid  initial  awkwardnesses, 
only  to  become  involved  later  in  awkwardnesses  in 
finitely  more  extensive.  At  the  memory  of  Mrs. 
Railey  he  winced;  at  that  of  Lena  Brundage  he 
shuddered.  By  trying  to  spare  her  feelings  he  had 
got  into  a  fix  from  which  his  wife  —  dear,  sane,  wise 
Molly  —  had  finally  been  obliged  to  extricate  him. 
How  ashamed  he  had  been!  And  even  Molly 
did  n't  know  that  at  their  final  meeting  the  high- 
strung  widow  had  shrieked  and  flung  a  hairbrush  at 
him. 

But  Maida!  Maida,  whose  instincts  were  so  re 
fined,  so  sweet,  so  gentle !  Was  Maida  to  be  likened 


THE  ENNOBLING  INFLUENCE 

to  a  woman  such  aS  that?  A  thousand  times  no! 
There  was  but  one  resemblance  between  this  affair 
and  that  old  repulsive  memory,  and  that  resemblance 
had  to  do  entirely  with  the  course  he  had  pursued. 
In  either  instance  Molly  had  been  kept  too  long  in 
ignorance  of  what  was  going  on. 

In  his  gratitude  to  Molly  after  the  escape  from 
Mrs.  Brundage  he  had  vehemently  insisted  that  there 
would  be  no  recurrence  of  that  particular  mistake. 
If  in  future  he  felt  himself  caught  in  an  eddy  of 
incipient  adventure  he  would  own  up.  It  would  be 
difficult,  but  he  would  do  it.  However,  time  had 
softened  the  determination.  And  now,  here  he  was 
again,  with  a  well-developed  case  and  the  likeli 
hood  of  large,  uncomfortable  explainings  looming 
imminent  before  him. 


153 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

THE   MYSTIC 

IN  the  beginning  he  had  fully  intended  to  tell 
Molly  about  Maida.  He  had  thought  of  it  sev 
eral  times  on  the  evening  they  had  met.  Yet  next 
day,  when  writing  to  his  wife,  he  had  not  mentioned 
the  experience  of  the  night  before.  And  why  not? 
Simply  because,  though  he  had  seen  Maida  but  once, 
the  story  was  already  a  rather  awkward  one  to  tell 
—  awkward  because  the  facts  would  leave  a  false 
impression. 

Fancy,  for  instance,  writing  to  one's  wife: 

As  you  requested  me  to  do,  I  went  to  the  bazaar 
to  look  for  Christmas  presents.  At  the  lamp-shade 
booth  I  fell  into  conversation  with  a  very  nice  girl, 
and  finally  bought  a  large  parchment  shade,  which  she 
had  painted  with  figures  of  Harlequin  and  Columbine, 
paying  thirty  dollars  for  it.  While  conversing  I  hap 
pened  to  learn  that  she  had  gone  without  her  dinner 
because  they  were  short-handed  at  the  booth,  and  as 
it  was  then  nearly  ten,  and  business  was  letting  up, 

154 


THE  MYSTIC 

I  insisted  on  taking  her  to  the  cafe  at  the  end  of  the 
corridor  for  sandwiches  and  coffee.  Naturally  we 
talked  at  table;  I  discovered  that  she  was  interested 
in  psychic  matters  and  that  there  was  a  fortune  teller 
at  the  bazaar.  So  after  supper  we  went  and  had  our 
fortunes  told.  And  then,  as  it  was  near  closing  time 
and  everyone  was  going  home,  and  as  I  had  to  have 
a  taxicab  to  take  away  my  lamp  shade,  and  as  she  was 
such  a  nice  girl,  and  as  we  had  got  along  so  pleasantly, 
I  asked  to  drive  her  home.  And  she  permitted  me  to 
do  so.  And  there  's  nothing  more  to  tell,  except  that 
I  have  an  engagement  to  call  at  her  studio  and  look 
at  some  of  'her  other  work. 

That,  lacking  though  it  did  certain  vivid  little  de 
tails,  nevertheless  represented  the  bald  story  —  the 
story  he  had  failed  to  tell  his  wife.  And  why  had 
he  failed  to  tell  it?  Because  he  felt  that,  recount  it 
in  what  words  he  might  and  with  what  elaborations, 
explain  as  he  might  that  Maida  was  not  a  flirt,  but  a 
beautiful  free  spirit  untrammeled  by  convention,  try 
as  he  might  to  show  how  naturally  one  thing  had  led 
to  another,  how  perfectly  proper  everything  had 
been  —  nevertheless,  the  modifying  points  would  all 
be  brushed  aside  by  Molly.  To  her  the  outstanding 
facts  would  be  merely  that  he  had  scraped  up  an  ac 
quaintance  with  a  girl  —  just  a  girl  —  who  was  of 

155 


AFTER  THIRTY 

course  pretty,  whatever  else  she  might  or  might  not 
be;  and  that  she  had  proved  to  be  the  sort  of  girl 
who  under  such  circumstances  would  let  a  man  — 
just  a  man  —  take  her  to  supper,  to  a  fortune  teller, 
and  then  home  in  a  taxicab. 

Having  failed  to  face  the  music  at  the  outset,  he 
had  thereafter  taken  the  easy  way,  never  mentioning 
Maida  at  all  in  his  letters  to  his  wife,  excusing  the 
dereliction  with  vague  half  thoughts  to  the  effect 
that  when  Molly  came  home  and  met  Maida  it  would 
be  all  right,  because  then  she  would  see  what  a  very 
nice  girl  she  really  was. 

Now,  however,  the  situation  appeared  to  him  in 
a  very  different  light.  For  though  the  niceness  of 
Maida  had,  in  his  opinion,  become  even  more 
obvious  as  time  went  on,  it  was  also  more  obvious, 
now,  that  he  and  Maida  were  exceedingly  good 
friends. 

Consider  the  single  fact  that  they  addressed  each 
other  by  their  given  names.  How  could  he  have 
foreseen  that  such  a  thing  was  going  to  happen,  and 
so  soon?  Such  rapid  progress  was,  so  far  as  he 
could  remember,  unprecedented  in  his  experience. 
But  that,  far  from  being  a  mitigating  circumstance 

156 


THE  MYSTIC 

in  Molly's  eyes,  would  only  make  things  worse. 
From  her  point  of  view  the  facts  would  amount  to 
this :  That  he  was  calling  by  her  first  name  a  young 
woman  of  whom  she  had  never  before  heard  —  and 
of  whom  she  knew  he  had  never  heard  six  weeks 
earlier. 

That,  moreover,  was  far  from  being  the  only  dif 
ficulty  he  now  foresaw. 

Having  found  each  other  so  congenial,  having  met 
with  such  frequency  in  the  past  few  weeks,  they  had 
quite  naturally  accumulated  a  store  of  little  memo 
ries,  little  understandings,  little  playfulnesses,  to 
which  they  were  in  the  habit  of  frequently  alluding. 
The  thought  now  came  to  him  that  it  would  be  like 
Maida  —  child  of  Nature  that  she  was !  —  to  hark 
back  no  less  frankly  to  these  intimate  little  items 
when  Molly  should  be  present ;  and  that,  with  Molly 
there  to  hear  and  interpret,  he  would  no  longer  find 
such  references  pleasing. 

He  had  given  Maida  small  presents  — •  a  set  of 
de  Maupassant,  an  electric  toaster,  a  table  for  her 
bedside  on  which  to  set  the  telephone,  and  a  cock 
tail  shaker.  He  had  invented  a  cocktail  and  named 
it  for  her;  and  she,  in  turn,  had  devised  an  appetiz- 

157 


AFTER  THIRTY 

ing  dish,  consisting  of  eggs,  tomatoes  and  minced 
ham,  which,  because  he  liked  it,  she  had  called 
"  Eggs  Shelley." 

Then,  too,  there  were  the  things  the  fortune  teller 
had  told  them.  He  would  not  wish  Molly  to  know 
about  all  that 

To  be  sure,  he  and  Maida  in  speaking,  now  and 
then,  of  what  the  fortune  teller  said,  had  not  at  first 
assumed  to  take  it  very  seriously;  yet  Wickett  no 
ticed  that  Maida  remembered  very  definitely  certain 
sayings  of  the  mystic,  to  which  he  had  given  hardly 
a  second  thought;  and  he  was  beginning  to  wonder 
whether  she,  perhaps,  attached  too  much  importance 
to  them. 

Maida  was  superstitious.  That  was  one  of  the 
first  things  he  had  discovered  concerning  her  more 
intimate  self.  She  had  scruples  against  drinking 
from  a  glass  held  in  the  left  hand;  against  spilling 
salt  without  immediately  counteracting  evil  results 
by  throwing  some  of  the  spilled  salt  over  the  left 
shoulder;  and  against  the  use,  by  more  than  two 
smokers,  of  the  same  match.  She  would  cross  the 
street  rather  than  walk  under  a  ladder,  and  she  be 
lieved  firmly  in  the  ill  report  attaching  to  Friday 
and  the  number  thirteen. 

158 


THE  MYSTIC 

On  the  other  hand,  certain  things  were  lucky 
omens.  A  black  cat  crossing  one's  path  signified 
good  fortune;  collected  bubbles  on  tea  or  coffee 
meant  money ;  Thursday  was  —  for  her,  at  least  — 
a  lutky  day;  and  any  multiple  of  seven  a  lucky 
number  —  particularly  fourteen. 

The  last  two  points  had  been  significantly  empha 
sized  by  the  fortune  teller  —  a  nondescript  brown 
foreigner  who,  from  his  bronze  skin  and  shrewd 
black  eyes,  might  have  been  anything  from  an  Ar 
menian  to  a  Hindu  —  for  it  so  happened  that  the 
night  on  which  they  met  and  visited  his  booth  at 
the  bazaar  was  that  of  Thursday  —  lucky  Thursday 
—  and  that  when,  at  his  request,  they  had  counted 
the  letters  making  their  respective  names,  they  dis 
covered  that  each  name  contained  fourteen  letters. 

It  was  Shelley's  recollection  that  the  fortune  teller 
had  not  promulgated,  until  after  this  discovery,  his 
dictum  concerning  the  beneficent  properties  of  seven 
and  its  multiples,  but  Maida  insisted  he  had  spoken 
of  it  before  the  particular  application  of  it  to  their 
case  had  been  revealed.  Anyway,  she  asserted, 
every  one  knew  that  fourteen  was  a  lucky  number, 
and  that  seven  was  a  mystic  one.  Did  n't  almost 
everything  go  by  sevens?  Were  n't  there  the  seven 

159 


AFTER  THIRTY 

days  of  the  week,  and  the  seven  ages  of  man,  and 
the  seven  seas,  and  sabbatical  years  for  professors; 
and  was  n't  it  a  notorious  fact  that  a  seventh  son  of 
a  seventh  son  was  the  favorite  of  fortune? 

Nor  was  that  all  the  fortune  teller's  lore.  By  the 
science  of  numbers,  the  reading  of  the  stars,  and 
other  occultisms,  Destiny,  it  would  appear,  had 
linked  them.  For  example,  Maida  was  twenty-four 
years  old  and  Shelley  thirty-nine;  twenty- four  and 
thirty-nine  make  sixty-three  —  another  mulitple  of 
seven.  Also,  it  was  disclosed  that  his  birthday  fell 
in  April  and  hers  in  December. 

These  months,  the  mystic  told  them,  enjoyed  a 
peculiar  astrological  affinity;  for  whereas  Decem 
ber  people  were,  as  he  expressed  it,  "  harmonious  " 
with  those  born  in  August,  November  or  April,  those 
who,  like  Wickett,  had  entered  the  world  under  the 
sign  of  Aries,  were  "  harmonious  "  with  the  persons 
of  one  month  and  one  month  only;  and  that  was 
December,  Maida's  month. 

When,  more  recently,  Maida  had  reminded  him  of 
all  these  points,  Wickett  had  been  disposed  to  con 
tend  that  a  fortune  teller  would  be  altogether  likely 
to  attempt  to  link  the  destinies  of  any  man  and 

160 


THE  MYSTIC 

woman  who  had  come  to  him  together;  but  at  this 
Maida  triumphantly  produced  a  book  on  astrology 
in  which  the  April-December  theory  was  set  forth  in 
print  —  which,  according  to  her,  proved  that  it  was 
true. 


161 


CHAPTER  XIX 
IN  MAIDA'S  STUDIO 

DO  you  know  what  day  this  is?  "  Maida  asked, 
looking  at  him  significantly  when,  dinner  be 
ing  at  last  ready,  they  were  seated  at  the  little  table 
in  the  studio  window. 

"  Thursday,"  he  replied. 

"  Yes,  but  what  Thursday?  " 

He  pondered  and  was  unable  to  discover  that  it 
was  any  special  Thursday. 

"  Five  weeks  ago  to-night,"  she  reminded  him, 
"  you  came  to  the  bazaar." 

"Why,  of  course!"  Then,  after  a  moment's 
reverie :  "  You  '11  not  misunderstand  when  I  say  it 
seems  longer  than  that." 

She  nodded.  "  Yes,  longer  in  one  way  —  that  is, 
we  're  like  old  friends.  Yet  in  another  way  it 
does  n't  seem  long  at  all.  It  might  have  been  last 
week,  it 's  all  so  fresh  in  my  mind." 

162 


IN  MAIDA'S  STUDIO 

"  Is  it?  What  single  thing  do  you  remember  best 
about  it  all?" 

"  Our  visit  to  the  fortune  teller,"  she  replied.  "  I 
don't  believe  I  have  forgotten  anything  he  said. 
Is  n't  that  what  you  remember  best?  " 

"  No,"  he  answered ;  "  wnen  I  think  of  that  even 
ing  it  is  somehow  the  drive  down  here  that  I  love  to 
remember." 

"Why?" 

"  Oh,"  said  he,  "  I  did  n't  need  any  occult  gentle 
man  to  tell  me  that  you  and  I  were  —  were  con 
genial;  that  we  understood  each  other  instinctively. 
I  knew  that  by  the  way  you  told  me  about  how  you 
had  come  on  from  Centreville  to  study  art,  and  how 
you  couldn't  bear  to  go  back,  and  how  when  you 
had  completed  your  course  at  the  Forum  you  took  a 
studio  and  branched  out  for  yourself." 

"  But  you  asked  me  about  myself,"  she  inter 
jected. 

"  Yes  —  and  you  told  me. 

"  And  then,"  he  continued,  "  I  was  perfectly  de 
lighted  at  the  way  you  accepted  my  proposal  that 
we  go  to  the  cafe.  It  was  an  unconventional  thing 
for  me  to  suggest,  and  for  you  to  do.  But  you 
were  n't  coy  about  it  as  so  many  girls  would  have 

163 


AFTER  THIRTY 

been;  you  just  came  along  naturally  and  easily  like 
the  bully  little  chum  you  are.  And  I  '11  never  forget 
the  way  you  looked  up  as  we  were  going  to  the  cafe, 
and  smiled  at  me  and  said,  '  I  think  we  might  as  well 
know  each  other's  names.' ' 

"  I  liked  your  name,"  she  said  in  a  softly  rem 
iniscent  voice. 

"  And  I  liked  yours.  Do  you  know  what  it  made 
me  think  of?  What  you  made  me  think  of?  For 
you  match  your  name." 

"What?" 

"  Have  n't  I  ever  told  you  ?  " 

"  I  don't  believe  so.  I  don't  know.  Any 
way  " 

"  Of  a  spring  day,"  he  said.  "  You  may  be  a  De 
cember  girl,  Maida,  but  your  eyes  are  April  eyes  — 
the  blue  of  the  sky  on  an  April  day.  And  the  gold 
strands  in  your  hair  are  like  shafts  of  sunlight 
piercing  April  clouds.  And  that  loose  way  you 
have  of  doing  up  your  hair  —  so  unstudied  —  I 
thought  to  myself:  *  It 's  like  a  crown  tossed  upon 
her  head  by  April  winds.' ' 

"  What  lovely  ideas  1  "  she  said.  "  They  're  like 
little  poems." 

"  Are    they  ?     Well,    do    you    know    I    always 
164 


IN  MAIDA'S  STUDIO 

thought  until  that  night  that  I  liked  marcelled  hair? 
Yes.  I  imagine  I  do  still  —  for  the  ordinary 
woman.  But  you  're  a  type,  Maida.  That 's  the 
point.  You  can  wear  your  hair  as  you  do  for  the 
same  reason  you  look  so  fetching  in  that  old  paint- 
covered  smock  of  yours;  or  " —  for  having  finished 
with  her  cooking  Maida  had  slipped  off  the  smock  — 
"  in  that  absolutely  plain  silk  dress  you  have  on, 
without  any  flumdiddles  at  the  neck  and  shoulders, 
you  know." 

"  But  you  have  n't  told  me  yet  why  you  think 
most  about  driving  me  home  that  night." 

"  I  was  coming  to  that.  The  longer  we  were  to 
gether  the  less  I  wished  to  leave  you.  It  was  n't 
only  that  I  was  lonely  and  that  I  had  begun  to  —  to 
appreciate  you,  but  that  the  whole  experience  had 
been  so  stimulating.  I  had  n't  felt  like  that  in  years. 
I  felt  young  and  alive,  and  full  of  the  spirit  of  deli 
cate  adventure.  Remember,  Maida,  I  'm  thirty- 
nine." 

"  Oh,  it  is  n't  the  years,  Shelley.  Your  spirit  will 
always  be  young." 

"  I  don't  know  about  that.  I  was  feeling  posi 
tively  venerable  when  I  went  down  to  the  bazaar 
that  evening.  Then  along  you  came,  and  —  well,  I 

165 


AFTER  THIRTY 

can  only  say  that  the  illusion  of  youthfulness  at 
thirty-nine  is  in  a  way  more  wonderful  than  youth 
itself;  just  as  Indian  summer,  having  autumn  as  a 
background,  can  be  more  wonderful  than  actual 
June." 

"  But  you  're  talking  like  an  old  man !  " 

He  looked  at  her  with  a  little  smile  that  was  not 
too  happy.  Then  he  said  cryptically :  "  I  suppose 
I  'm  getting  ready  to  be  old  again." 

"Oh,  no!" 

"  At  all  events,"  he  continued,  "  I  felt  almost  vio 
lently  that  I  did  n't  want  to  leave  you,  yet  I  could  n't 
see  how  I  was  to  avoid  it.  It  seemed  that,  accord 
ing  to  life's  normal  way,  I  must  part  with  you  simply 
because  there  was  nothing  further  to  prevent  it. 
That  was  the  natural  course  of  events.  And  one 
thing  that  makes  life  generally  dull  is  that  it  is  so 
infernally  full  of  the  natural  course  of  events. 

"  When  I  asked  to  drive  you  home  I  was  fright 
ened  —  really  frightened,  Maida  —  rather  in  the 
way  a  young  man  is  frightened  when  he  proposes  to 
a  girl.  And  when  you  met  me  on  my  own  ground, 
when  you  took  it  so  much  as  though  it  were  a  matter 
of  course  —  though  we  both  knew  it  was  n't  —  then 
I  felt  ecstatic.  We  were  Harlequin  and  Columbine 

1 66 


IN  MAIDA'S  STUDIO 

that  evening  —  like  the  Harlequin  and  Columbine 
you  had  painted  on  the  lamp  shade  I  bought.  Do 
you  remember  what  a  bulky  package  it  made,  resting 
on  my  knees  in  the  taxi  ?  Do  you  remember  it  had 
rained  earlier  in  the  evening,  and  how  the  Fifth  Ave 
nue  street  lamps  were  reflected  on  the  wet  asphalt? 
I  don't  recall  what  we  talked  about,  except  that  I  was 
determined  that  when  we  reached  your  door  and  said 
good-night  it  was  n't  going  to  be  good-by,  and  that  I 
kept  fishing  until  you  said  I  could  come  in  next  day 
and  look  at  some  other  lamp  shades." 

"  That  was  my  commercial  instinct,"  she  said 
teasingly. 

"  And  then,"  he  went  on,  heedless,  "  I  just  sat 
back  and  reveled  in  the  experience  —  yes,  in  the 
very  smell  of  that  musty  old  taxicab.  I  don't  know 
just  why,  Maida,  but  the  transition  from  that  riot  of 
noise  and  color  in  the  bazaar  to  the  seclusion  of  that 
ramshackle,  night-prowling  public  vehicle  —  with 
you  —  was  one  of  the  most  wonderful  things  that 
ever  happened  to  me." 

"  I  understand,"  she  said. 

"  Yes,"  he  exclaimed,  "  that 's  it !  You  under 
stand.  You  always  understand.  That  is  what  has 
made  the  whole  thing  so  beautiful.  That 's  how 

167 


AFTER  THIRTY 

you  've  made  a  sort  of  little  heaven  for  me  here, 
these  last  few  weeks-.  I  've  felt  that  I  could  come 
as  often  as  I  wanted,  that  I  could  make  myself  at 
home  —  as  I  've  done  —  and  that  you  'd  understand. 
You  can't  imagine  how  I  've  come  to  love  this  place 
of  yours,  Maida !  " 

He  stopped  speaking  and  allowed  his  eyes  to 
wander  over  the  large,  disordered  room,  from  the 
airy  space  beneath  the  skylight  overhead,  which 
marked  the  place  as  the  abode  of  art,  to  the  hetero 
geneous  array  of  furniture,  and  of  minor  objects 
with  which  the  top  of  everything  that  had  a  top  was 
littered  —  the  carved  Italian  chair  with  a  mandarin's 
coat  thrown  over  it  and  an  ultra-modern  hat  of 
French  blue  lying  on  the  seat;  the  large  easel,  and 
the  little  table  beside  it,  covered  with  pencils, 
pens,  pads,  brushes,  pieces  of  crayon  and  charcoal, 
bottles  of  India  ink  and  twisted  tubes  of 
paint ;  the  big  rug-draped  couch  with  its  many 
pillows,  and  his  overcoat,  hat  and  cane  thrown 
down  upon  it;  the  bookcase,  piano,  mantel  shelf, 
and  above  all  the  large  mission  table  at  the 
center  of  the  room  —  all  their  horizontal  surfaces 
overflowing  with  small  things ;  books,  sheet  music, 
drawing  and  writing  materials,  photographs  framed 

168 


IN  MAIDA'S  STUDIO 

and  unframed,  a  fur  neckpiece,  vases,  lamps,  tea 
cups,  candy  and  cigarette  boxes,  statuettes,  gloves, 
brass  candlesticks,  and  bowls  and  ash  trays  contain 
ing  cigarette  ends.  Were  this  the  drawing-room  of 
a  conventional  household,  Wickett  thought,  the  gray- 
tinted  walls  might  be  said  to  need  doing  over,  for 
they  were  cracked  and  dusty  and  showed  occasional 
discolored  patches  where  pictures  had  been  taken 
down ;  but  here,  in  Maida's  studio,  one  liked  all  that, 
just  as  one  liked  the  casual  way  in  which  a  medley 
of  Japanese  prints,  sketches,  posters  and  broadly 
painted  unframed  canvases  were  scattered  over  the 
walls. 

"  If  I  came  in  here  a  stranger,"  he  said,  "  I  'd 
know  it  all  belonged  to  you." 

Turning  back  to  her  as  he  spoke  he  was  startled 
at  discovering  that  her  eyes  were  filled  with  tears. 

"  Why,  Maida!  "  he  exclaimed.     "  What  is  it?  " 

She  smiled  and  shook  her  head. 

"  Nothing,  except  —  you  've  been  talking  poetry." 

Wickett  was  astonished,  touched,  mystified.  It 
seemed  to  him  that  he  had  merely  been  reflective, 
reminiscent.  The  thought  that  he  had  been  making 
love  to  Maida  did  not  cross  his  mind.  It  did  occur 
to  him  now,  however,  that  the  agreeable  and  some- 

169 


AFTER  THIRTY 

what  tender  retrospections  in  which  he  had  been 
indulging  had  created  an  atmosphere  ill  suited  to  his 
project  of  mentioning,  this  evening,  the  imminence 
of  his  wife's  return,  and  of  indicating  certain  — 
certain  little  changes  that  must  necessarily  ensue. 
Why  had  he  started  talking  about  that  night  at  the 
bazaar?  And  why  had  Maida  for  the  first  time 
shown  emotion?  It  was  unfortunate.  Neverthe 
less,  Molly  was  already  hours  on  her  way  East. 
Maida  ought  to  know  that.  She  had  a  right  to 
know  it.  And  though  he  hoped  she  fully  realized 
the  difference  that  Molly's  return  was  going  to  make, 
he  felt  he  could  no  longer  risk  the  chance  that  she 
did  not. 

More  awkwardness !     He  sighed  heavily. 

"  What 's  the  matter,  Shelley  ?  That 's  the  sec 
ond  time  to-day  you  Ve  sighed  like  that." 

"Is  it?" 

"  Yes ;  once  over  the  telephone  this  morning. 
You  're  troubled  about  something." 

"  What  makes  you  think  so  ?  " 

"  I  know  it.     I  can  tell." 

"  But  how  can  you  tell  ?  " 

"  Oh,"  she  replied,  smiling  at  him  as  with  a  ball 
of  handkerchief  she  dabbed  the  last  vestige  of  the 

170 


IN  MAIDA'S  STUDIO 

tears  from  her  eyes,  "  I  suppose  it 's  because  you 
were  born  in  April  and  I  in  December." 

"  Well,"  he  said,  determined  to  attack  the  situa 
tion,  "  you  're  right,  anyway.  I  am  a  little 
troubled."  Then  realizing  that  it  would  n't  sound 
well  to  say  that  he  was  troubled  because  Molly  was 
coming  home,  he  tried  to  modify  the  statement  by 
adding :  "  That  is,  you  're  right  in  a  way." 

"Has  your  worry  anything  to  do  with  me?" 

Then  as  he  hesitated  she  proclaimed :  "  It  has. 
I  knew  it !  " 

"  What  makes  you  think  so?" 

"  I  can't  say.  I  just  seem  to  know.  Tell  me 
what  it  is,  Shelley." 

"  I  got  a  telegram  to-day.  My  wife  is  coming 
home."  His  eyes  avoided  hers. 

"  I  thought  so." 

"You  thought  so?" 

"  Yes.  You  had  already  received  the  telegram 
when  we  were  talking  over  the  telephone  this  morn 
ing,  had  n't  you  ?  " 

"  Yes.     But,  Maida !     How  on  earth  -    -?  " 

She  regarded  him  solemnly,  saying:  "  Have  you 
forgotten  that  the  fortune  teller  said  I  was  in 
clined  to  be  psychic?  " 

17.1 


AFTER  THIRTY 

Wickett  stared. 

"  I  had  forgotten,"  he  said. 

"  He  told  me  to  follow  my  instincts  —  don't  you 
remember  ?  —  especially  in  cases  where  I  vibrated 
on  the  same  plane  with  some  one  else  —  that  my  in 
stincts  would  invariably  be  right." 

"  The  same  plane?  " 

"  Yes.  You  and  I  vibrate  on  the  same  plane, 
Shelley.  He  said  so.  Have  n't  you  felt  it  all 
along?" 

"  I  Ve  felt  that  we  were  awfully  good  —  good 
pals,"  he  said. 

"  Perhaps  that 's  only  another  way  of  putting 
it." 

"  Perhaps.  And  when  Molly  gets  home  I  want 
you  to  know  each  other  and  be  bully  good  friends, 
you  know,  and  —  and  all  that.  I'm  so  awfully 
fond  of  you,  you  know,  Maida.  And  Molly  — 
she 's  no  end  of  a  good  sort.  Really.  I  know 
you  '11  —  you  '11  like  her.  And  of  course  she  '11  like 
you  enormously.  Naturally  she  will.  And  she  '11 
appreciate  how  bully  you  've  been  to  me  while  she 
was  away.  I  really  don't  know  what  I  'd  have  done 
without  you.  And  as  soon  as  our  place  is  in  work- 

172 


IN  MAIDA'S  STUDIO 

ing  order  again  you'll  come  up  for  dinner  with  us, 
won't  you?  And  Molly  will  come  down  and  see 
the  studio  and  all ;  and  then 

"  It  will  be  nice  for  your  children  to  have  their 
mother  at  home  again,"  put  in  Maida.  Wickett 
was  thankful  to  her  for  saying  something.  He  was 
conscious  of  having  talked  rapidly  and  loosely - 
like  something  wound  up.  He  had  wanted  to  stop, 
but  he  had  n't  quite  known  how. 

"  Yes,"  he  returned,  "  they  '11  be  awfully  glad  to 
see  her."  Then  feeling  that  that  alone  was  not 
quite  adequate  he  appended :  "  Naturally,  we  '11  all 
be  glad."  And  having  said  that,  and  fearing  that 
it  sounded  just  a  little  thoughtless,  just  a  little  in 
considerate  of  Maida,  he  amended  still  further, 
saying :  "  Except  that  I  '11  miss  these  little  two 
somes  of  ours.  I  '11  miss  them  a  lot.  I  'm  sure 
you  know  that."  And  though  that  did  n't  sound 
right  to  him,  either,  he  let  it  stand.  One  can't  go  on 
amending  one's  remarks  forever. 

"  Don't  explain,  Shelley,"  she  said  very  gently. 
"  You  don't  need  to.  You  may  be  sure  I  under 
stand."  Somehow,  he  did  n't  quite  know  why, 
there  seemed,  now,  to  be  an  implication  of  a  deep 
significance  in  her  assertion  of  her  understanding. 

173 


AFTER  THIRTY 

It  troubled  him.  He  desired  to  be  sure  that  she 
had  gauged  accurately  the  sense  of  what  he  had  been 
trying  to  communicate. 

'  The  point  is,"  he  said,  "  that,  to  put  it  bluntly, 
j j " 

She  smiled  at  him  tenderly. 

"  I  can  say  it  better  than  you  can,  I  think.  The 
point  is  that  you  want  to  be  chivalrous.  Is  n't  that 
it?" 

"  Well  —  yes,"  he  admitted,  supposing  that  she 
meant,  "  You  want  to  be  chivalrous  to  me." 

"  Now,"  he  thought  to  himself  with  infinite  re 
lief,  "  everything  is  comfortably  fixed.  She  does 
understand." 

That  night  as  he  went  home,  ^nd  again  each  time 
he  thought  the  matter  over  in  the  next  few  days, 
he  congratulated  himself  upon  having  adroitly 
handled  an  awkward  situation.  For  is  it  not  as 
difficult,  when  one  considers  it,  to  tell  the  other 
woman  about  one's  wife,  as  to  tell  one's  wife  about 
the  other  woman  ? 


174 


CHAPTER  XX 

A    RECITAL 

NOT  at  any  time  had  there  been  in  Wickett's 
mind  a  moment's  doubt  as  to  the  sincerity 
with  which  he  looked  forward  to  his  wife's  return. 
Certain  subsequent  accountings  he  did  not,  to  be 
sure,  anticipate  with  pleasure;  but  having  planned 
with  much  care  the  precise  manner  in  which  these 
accountings  should  be  made,  in  order  to  produce 
the  least  unfavorable  impression,  and  being,  more 
over,  of  habitually  optimistic  nature,  he  was  in  a 
cheerful  frame  of  mind,  even  with  regard  to  these 
possible  embarrassments,  as  he  went  to  the  station 
to  meet  her. 

How  glad,  how  very  glad  he  would  be  to  see 
her  he  had  not  fully  realized  until,  walking  rapidly 
down  the  concrete  platform  toward  the  rear  of  a 
long  express  train  which  had  just  rolled  slowly  in, 
he  saw  Molly  step  from  the  Morvens'  car. 

Molly!     His  own  fine,  open-hearted,  lovely,  level- 


AFTER  THIRTY 

headed  Molly,  with  her  clear,  candid  eyes  like  those 
of  a  Madonna,  yet  so  capable  of  showing  humorous 
appreciation,  too,  upon  occasion.  What  a  lucky 
dog  he  was  to  have  a  wife  like  that!  Yes,  and  how 
unworthy.  What  in  the  name  o-f  common  sense 
was  it  that  turned  him  every  now  and  then  into 
a  philandering  fool?  At  the  sight  of  her  a  win 
dow  seemed  to  open  in  his  soul  admitting  a  great 
gust  of  purifying  feeling,  as  when  a  long  unventi- 
lated  room,  filled  with  the  smoke  of  cigarettes  and 
Chinese  punk,  is  suddenly  thrown  open  to  the  sun 
and  wind. 

The  children,  whom  he  had  taken  down  to  meet 
her,  rushed  forward  crying,  "Mother!  Mother!" 
and  a  moment  later  all  four  of  them  were  reunited 
in  a  family  embrace. 

No  need  to  ask  if  the  trip  had  done  her  good. 
She  was  radiant  —  ten  years  younger  in  appearance 
than  when  she  went  away. 

That  evening  they  celebrated  her  return  by  hav 
ing  supper  with  the  children,  after  which  she  told 
in  glowing  words  of  the  trip  —  the  horseback  ride 
through  the  Yosemite,  the  redwoods,  the  festivi 
ties  in  San  Francisco,  the  Seventeen  Mile  Drive, 
and  house  parties  at  Burlingame  and  Pebble  Beach. 

176 


A  RECITAL 

In  accordance  with  the  plan  that  he  had  formu 
lated  Wickett  refrained  that  evening  from  mention 
ing  Maida.  His  first  impulse,  when  he  had  some 
thing  to  confess,  was  to  do  it  as  soon  as  possible  and 
get  it  over  with;  but  the  thought  had  come  to  him, 
as  he  pondered  the  present  problem,  that  to  rusri 
immediately  into  explanations  would  be  to  advertise 
the  fact  that  the  subject  of  those  explanations  was 
uppermost  in  his  mind;  whereas,  by  waiting  a  day 
and  then  beginning  with  some  such  phrase  as,  "  Oh, 
by  the  way,"  he  hoped  to  make  the  tale  he  had  to  tell 
seem  casual. 

His  plan  was  exceedingly  complete.  It  included 
maneuvers  designed  to  bring  Molly  to  the  proper 
frame  of  mind,  and  details  as  to  the  proper  time 
and  place  for  the  confession. 

He  began  now  to  pave  the  way. 

"  Don't  make  any  engagement  for  to-morrow 
afternoon,"  he  said.  "  I  have  some  tickets  for  a 
recital." 

"  A  recital !  "  Her  tone  expressed  the  amaze 
ment  that  she  felt.  "  You  mean  you  're  going  to 
take  me?  " 

"  Yes,  of  course,"  he  said,  trying  to  speak  in 
a  matter-of-fact  tone. 

177 


AFTER  THIRTY 

He  had  not  realized  that  she  would  be  so  much 
surprised.  She  was  staring  at  him  with  a  look  of 
puzzlement  amounting  almost  to  alarm. 

"What  kind  of  a  recital?" 

"  Piano.     Rubinovich  in  a  Brahms  program." 

"  Brahms?  "  she  echoed,  the  depth  of  her  mysti 
fication  increased. 

"  Yes.     You  've  always  liked  Brahms." 

"  I  did  n't  know  you  even  knew  it." 

"  Of  course  I  knew  it." 

She  continued  to  gaze  at  him  with  that  curious 
look.  Never  before  had  such  a  suggestion  come 
from  him.  Her  musical  life  had  been  led  apart 
from  her  husband,  save  when  he  had  been  obliged 
to  escort  her  to  the  opera,  and  on  the  one  occasion, 
years  ago,  when  he  had  voluntarily  taken  her  to  a 
symphony  concert  to  celebrate  her  recovery  after 
the  birth  of  little  Shelley.  But  a  piano  recital! 
And  Brahms!  What  could  it  mean? 

"Well,  it's  dear  of  you!"  she  exclaimed,  pre 
ferring,  wifelike,  to  believe  as  long  as  possible  that 
the  extraordinary  manifestation  constituted  a  dis 
interested  act  of  devotion. 

"  I  'm  glad  you  're  pleased,"  he  replied  virtuously. 

178 


A  RECITAL 

"  I  am  —  enormously.  But  how  did  you  — • 
what  gave  you  the  idea  ?  " 

"  Naturally,"  he  returned,  "  I  wished  to  celebrate 
your  homecoming." 

"  Dear  boy!  "  she  said,  and  kissed  him  on  the  top 
of  his  head. 

Wickett  felt  that  he  had  reason  to  be  well  pleased 
with  the  result  of  this  preliminary  operation.  It 
was,  of  course,  a  part  of  the  plan.  After  the 
Brahms  recital  it  was  his  intention  to  propose  that 
they  stay  downtown,  dining  at  a  quiet  little  French 
restaurant,  a  favorite  place  of  theirs.  Then,  having 
plied  her  with  the  sort  of  music  and  the  sort  of 
viands  she  liked  best,  when  they  had  sipped  their 
claret  and  drunk  their  after-dinner  coffee,  and  he 
had  lighted  a  Corona  —  then  he  would  watch  for 
an  opening  for  his,  "  Oh,  by  the  way,  Molly,  there  's 
some  one  I  want  to  have  meet  you  when  we  can 
arrange  it." 

Next  afternoon  he  managed  to  endure  the  in 
comprehensible  recital  by  continually  reflecting  that 
Molly  at  his  side  was  clearly  enjoying  it,  that  they 
were  to  have  a  good  dinner,  and  that  his  propitia 
tory  plans  had  so  far  worked  without  a  hitch.  So, 


AFTER  THIRTY 

too,  a  little  later  at  dinner.  They  sat  side  by  side 
upon  an  upholstered  seat,  back  to  the  wall,  whence 
they  could  inspect  the  other  diners,  while  enjoy 
ing  their  own  repast.  From  every  point  of  view 
it  was  as  perfect  a  little  dinner  as  he  could  have 
wished.  And  when  with  the  coming  of  the  coffee 
Molly  chanced  to  speak  of  some  Calif ornians  she 
had  met,  saying  they  had  promised  to  let  her  know 
when,  later  in  the  winter,  they  came  to  New  York, 
Wickett  felt  confident  that  the  gods  were  helping 
him. 

"  That  will  be  fine,"  he  said.  "  I  like  Califor- 
nians."  Then:  "  By  the  way,  Molly,  that  reminds 
me,  there  's  some  one  I  want  to  have  meet  you  when 
we  can  manage  it.  You  see,  while  you  were " 

"Oh!     Then  that's  it?"  she  said. 

He  felt  disconcerted. 

"That's  what?"  he  asked,  trying  to  look  guile 
less. 

"  That 's  what  you  have  to  tell  me." 

"  Yes,"  he  returned ;  "  I  was  just  starting  to 
tell  you." 

"  I  knew  it,"  she  averred,  "  the  minute  you  said 
'  by  the  way.'  " 

Already  he  was  thoroughly  uncomfortable.  He 
1 80 


A  RECITAL 

hoped  his  face  did  not  reveal  the  fact.  He  wished 
that  Molly  would  not  look  at  him  that  way  —  so 
steadily,  and  with  that  air  of  seeing  through  him 
and  finding  what  she  saw  amusing.  He  thought  it 
safer  to  ignore  her  last  remark. 

"  Well,  as  I  was  about  to  say,  while  you  were 
away  I  naturally  made  it  my  business  to  keep  in 
close  touch  with  the  children.  I  breakfasted  with 
them  every  morning  —  never  missed  a  morning  — 
and  at  night  I  either  had  dinner  with  them  or  else 
came  home  and  saw  them  before  going  out.  Of 
course,  I  did  go  out  some.  For  instance,  there  was 
the  bazaar.  You  left  the  tickets  for  me,  you  re 
member?  Well,  that  was ' 

"  Did  you  take  her  to  the  bazaar  ?  " 

"Take  her?     Who?" 

"  The  person  of  whom  you  have  been  telling  me." 

"  But  I  have  n't  told  you." 

"  Oh,  yes."     She  smiled  frankly  now. 

He  felt  the  color  mounting  to  his  temples. 

"  No,  I  have  n't." 

He  wished  to  demand,  "  When  did  I  begin  telling 
you?"  but  was  deterred  by  a  hideous  feeling  that 
she  might  refer  to  the  recital.  It  was  uncanny  the 
way  Molly  got  at  things ! 

181 


AFTER  THIRTY 

"  Never  mind,  then,"  she  said,  still  smiling. 
"  Go  on,  Shelley.  Is  she  any  one  I  know  ?  " 

"  No,"  he  replied,  surrendering. 

"  Some  one  you  met  at  the  bazaar?  " 

"  Yes  —  I  met  her  at  the  bazaar.     Why  ?  " 

Molly  laughed  outright. 

"  Are  you  very  miserable,  dear?  " 

For  the  first  time  he  was  frank. 

"  Rather,"  he  admitted,  smiling  ruefully. 

At  that  her  manner  changed. 

"  Come,"  she  said  in  the  gentle  tone  he  had  so 
often  heard  her  use  with  the  children,  and  which 
more  than  once  before  she  had  used  with  him, 
"  Come,  tell  mother  everything.  It  will  make  you 
feel  better." 

It  did  make  him  fed  better  to  tell,  though  he 
did  not  tell  her  everything  —  not  quite. 

"  She  sounds  young,"  commented  Molly  after 
having  listened  to  the  story. 

"  She  is,  rather,"  he  said.  "  Twenty-four.  But 
she  '11  be  twenty-five  on  the  eleventh  of  next  month." 

"  Hm-m,"  said  Molly.     "  What 's  she  like?  " 

"  I  've  told  you,"  he  answered  eagerly.  "  She  's 
really  an  awfully  nice  girl,  Molly.  So  sincere  and 

free  from " 

182 


A  RECITAL 

"  Yes,  yes,"  she  said,  "  you  have  told  me  all 
that.  I  mean,  what  does  she  look  like?  Is  she 
big  or  little,  blonde  or  brunette  ?  " 

"  She  's  a  blonde,"  he  answered.  "  Her  hair  is 
about  the  color  of  yours.  She  's  a  little  taller  than 
you  are,  but  more  slender  —  weighs  a  hundred  and 
twenty-eight,  to  be  exact." 

Molly  burst  out  laughing. 

"What's  the  matter?"  he  asked  miserably. 
"  You  asked  me  about  her,  and  when  I ' 

"  Oh,  Shelley,  Shelley !  "  she  said,  shaking  her 
head. 

"  And  when  I  tell  you,"  he  went  on,  "  then  you 
laugh  about  it." 

"  You  did  tell  me,  too !  "  she  said,  still  amused. 
"  My  poor  Shelley !  You  've  tried  to  be  so  discreet ; 
you  've  tried  to  break  it  to  me  so  very,  very  care 
fully  ;  and  then  at  the  very  end  you Oh,  my 

poor,  dear  susceptible  boy !  " 

"  At  the  very  end,  what? "  he  demanded,  suf 
fering  acutely. 

"  You  tell  me  her  exact  age,  date  of  birth  and 
weight ! " 

"  But  you  asked." 

"  And  you  knew !  I  did  n't  expect  such  minute 
183 


AFTER  THIRTY 

particulars,  Shelley.  I  don't  issue  automobile 
drivers'  licenses,  you  know,  and  I  'm  not  in  the  life- 
insurance  business.  Don't  you  see  that  it 's  funny 
that  you  knew  ?  " 

"No,  I  don't!"  said  he.  "I  just  happened  to 
know.  One  night  when  we  were  going  somewhere 
in  the  subway  she  weighed  herself  on  one  of  those 
slot  machines  they  have  in  the  stations.  That 's 
how  I  happen  to  know  her  weight.  And  as  to  her 
age  and  the  date  of  her  birthday  —  well,  there  was 
an  astrologer  at  the  bazaar.  We  went  to  him,  just 
for  fun,  to  have  our  fortunes  told.  We  both  gave 
our  ages  and  our  birthdays." 

"  They  do  at  twenty-four,"  said  Molly  with  a 
little  sigh.  She  thought  to  herself :  "  I  suppose 
it 's  natural  that  a  young  girl  should  attract  him." 
But  what  she  said  was :  "  I  suppose  I  'm  getting 
middle-aged." 

"Molly,"  he  protested,  "you  aren't!  Why,  I 
was  thinking  only  yesterday  when  you  got  off  the 
train  that  you  looked  about  twenty-five  yourself." 

She  shook  her  head. 

"  But  it 's  true !  You  always  were  lacking  in 
self-appreciation,  Molly.  You  're  one  of  those  peo 
ple  who  will  always  be  young.  You  're  a  better- 

184 


A  RECITAL 

looking  woman  right  now  than  you  were  ten  years 
ago.  It 's  a  fact ;  and  you  ought  to  be  getting  the 
joy  out  of  it." 

Though  his  sincerity  and  admiration  were  un 
mistakable  she  only  shook  her  head  again. 

"  Molly,"  he  exclaimed,  touching  her  hand  under 
the  table,  "  if  I  keep  on  falling  in  love  with  you 
more  and  more  every  year  in  the  future,  as  I  have 
in  the  past,  why,  by  the  time  I  'm  about  fifty  I  '11 
be  so  disgustingly  sentimental  over  you  that  —  that 
I  '11  mortify  you  in  public  —  I  '11  be  unable  to  con 
ceal  my  maudlin  infatuation  —  I  '11  sing  love  songs 
to  you  in  Fifth  Avenue  buses  —  I  '11  make  a  spec 
tacle  of  us  both  —  you  '11  have  to  chloroform  me!  " 

And  Molly  knew  that  though  he  spoke  whimsi 
cally,  the  essence  of  truth  was  in  his  words. 


185 


CHAPTER  XXI 

MOLLY    CALLS    ON    MAIDA 

MAIDA'S  studio-apartment  occupied  half  of 
the  top  floor  of  an  old  red-brick  residence  in 
West  Ninth  Street,  which  had  been  made  over  into 
an  apartment  house.  Never  until  the  day  in  the 
week  following,  when  he  escorted  his  wife  thither 
for  tea,  had  the  four  flights  of  stairs  much  disturbed 
the  regularity  of  Shelley  Wickett's  breathing. 

"  Yes,"  panted  Molly,  reaching  the  top,  "  she  's 
young,  beyond  a  doubt."  Then  as  he  reached  to 
ring  the  bell  she  interrupted  the  gesture,  saying: 
"  Wait.  I  want  to  get  my  breath  first." 

Nervous  as  he  was,  Wickett  had  time  to  be  proud 
of  Molly's  bearing  as  she  and  Maida  met.  You 
could  rely  on  Molly.  She  was  a  thoroughbred. 
From  the  outset  the  situation  was  in  her  hands. 
She  had  the  power,  the  finesse,  to  make  things 
either  difficult  or  easy,  and,  Molly-like,  she  chose 
the  latter  course. 

1 86 


MOLLY  CALLS  ON  MAIDA 

"  I  'm  under  obligations  to  you,  Miss  Greenwood," 
she  said  sweetly.  "  You  've  been  very  kind  to  this 
lonely  boy  of  mine."  A  fine  delicacy  made  her 
avoid  alike  the  formality  of  "  Mr.  Wickett  "  and 
the  assertive  possessiveness  of  "  my  husband." 

"  Shelley  has  been  very  kind  to  me,"  said  Maida. 

He  wished  dimly  that  she  had  waited  just  a 
moment  before  using  his  Christian  name.  Yet  it 
was  like  forthright  Maida  not  to  wait.  There  was 
something  admirable  yet  unskillful  in  her  complete 
directness. 

"  Not  at  all,"  he  said,  feeling  the  necessity  of 
speaking.  "  It 's  as  —  as  Mrs.  Wickett  says, 
you  've  been  awfully  nice  to  me." 

That  subject  seeming  to  be  exhausted  —  unless 
the  set  of  de  Maupassant,  the  electric  toaster,  the 
bedside  table  and  the  cocktail  shaker  were  to  be 
adduced  as  evidence  on  Maida's  side  —  there  came 
a  moment's  pause,  which  Molly  broke  before  it 
grew  to  awkward  length,  with  an  exclamation  of 
pleasure  over  several  of  Maida's  painted  parchment 
lamp  shades  which  she  discovered  lying  on  the  pile 
of  books,  papers  and  other  objects  that  all  but 
concealed  the  surface  of  the  large  table. 

Wickett's  uneasiness  increased  as  Maida  exhibited 


AFTER  THIRTY 

these  examples  of  her  craftsmanship  to  his  wife. 
Having  warned  Maida  that  the  shade  he  had  pur 
chased  on  the  night  of  their  first  meeting  was  to 
be  one  of  his  Christmas  presents  to  Molly,  he  did 
not  fear  that  she  would  speak  of  that.  The  thing 
that  concerned  him  was  that  one  of  the  newly 
painted  shades  was  decorated  with  the  signs  of  the 
zodiac,  and  he  feared  that  this  might  turn  the  con 
versation  to  astrology. 

The  fear  was  justified. 

'You  are  interested  in  horoscopes?"  suggested 
Molly,  after  paying  a  tribute  to  the  beauty  of  the 
shade. 

"  Yes,  indeed !  "  Maida  replied.  Then  she  added  : 
"  I  think  even  Shelley  may  be  inclined  to  admit  that 
there  is  something  in  astrology." 

Wickett   tried   to   say   something  noncommittal. 

"What's  your  month,  Mrs.  Wickett?"  Maida 
asked. 

"  March." 

"  Ah,"  said  Maida,  and  glanced  at  Shelley. 

"  Yours,  I  think,  is  December,"  Molly  said. 
Then  turning  to  Shelley :  "  Is  n't  that  what  you 
told  me?" 

He  nodded. 

1 88 


MOLLY  CALLS  ON  MAIDA 

"  Yes,"  replied  Maida.  "  And  Shelley's  is  April. 
I  personally  think  that 's  one  reason  why  we  became 
such  good  friends.  Don't  you,  Shelley?" 

"  It  might  have  had  something  to  do  with  it,"  said 
he.  "  I  'm  sure  I  don't  know." 

"  You  mean,"  said  Molly,  "  that  April  and  De 
cember  people  are  supposed  to  be  congenial?" 

"  Yes.     They  vibrate  on  the  same  plane." 

"  Oh,"  said  Molly,  "  I  did  n't  know  that.  I  Ve 
never  looked  into  astrology." 

"  I  think  you  'd  find  it  well  worth  while,"  Maida 
said. 

"Perhaps,"  Molly  answered  sweetly;  "but  you 
see  for  years  I  Ve  been  busy  with  domestic  affairs 
and  with  my  family.  I  have  very  little  time  for 
outside  things.  Even  music,  which  was  my  great 
interest  before  I  married,  has  gone  by  the  board. 
With  you  it  is  different.  You  are  young  and  inde 
pendent.  You  can  experiment  with  things." 

Though  she  spoke  blandly,  Wickett  knew  Molly's 
gentle  style  of  irony  well  enough  to  surmise  that 
her  remark  about  experimenting  might  be  double- 
edged.  He  was  glad  that  Maida  seemed  oblivious 
to  such  a  possibility. 

Even  when  the  talk  drifted  into  channels  quite 
189 


AFTER  THIRTY 

impersonal,  Wickett  continued  to  feel  ill  at  ease. 
Molly  and  Maida  seemed  to  be  getting  along  well 
enough.  Both  were,  indeed,  apparently  making 
every  effort  to  be  agreeable.  Yet  might  not  that, 
perhaps,  be  the  very  thing  that  was  wrong  ?  Effort. 
There  was  too  much  effort.  The  room  was  full 
of  it.  And  of  the  burden  of  it,  he  felt  upon  his 
own  shoulders  the  weight  of  his  full  share. 

Physically  the  studio  was  unchanged.  It  was 
the  same  picturesquely  disordered  room  in  which 
he  had  lately  known  delicious,  tingling  content 
ment.  But  now  for  him  there  was  something  gone 
out  of  the  place  —  something  essential.  What  was 
it?  Might  it  be  that  in  his  acutely  nervous  state 
he  was  surveying  the  studio,  as  it  were,  through 
Molly's  eyes?  Perhaps.  At  all  events  the  dust, 
the  disorder,  the  general  untidiness,  the  cobwebs 
overhead  —  for  to  kill  a  spider  is  unlucky  —  struck 
him,  for  the  first  time,  as  not  altogether  prepossess 
ing. 

What  was  Molly  thinking  of  it  all? 

When  Maida  invited  Molly  in  to  see  her  bed 
room  he  too  glanced  in,  and  was  shocked  to  see 
that  it  looked  as  though  a  whirlwind  had  blown 
through  it.  Articles  of  clothing  were  tossed  helter- 

190 


MOLLY  CALLS  ON  MAIDA 

skelter  over  bed  and  chairs,  bureau  drawers  were 
open,  and  on  tne  glass  top  of  the  dressing  table 
toilet  articles  swam  in  a  sea  of  talcum  powder. 
He  was  glad  that  Molly's  dressing  table  did  not 
look  like  that.  Maida  might  have  taken  the  trouble 
to  clear  up  a  little  when  his  wife  was  coming! 

Nor  was  he  pleased  to  observe,  when  she  served 
tea,  that  the  cups  and  saucers  were  dusty.  And 
still  less  was  he  pleased  when,  after  pouring  tea, 
she  said  in  a  matter-of-fact  way : 

"  Oh,  Shelley,  I  've  forgotten  the  cream.  Would 
you  mind  getting  it?  " 

The  remark  obviously  implied  so  much.  As  he 
went  to  get  the  cream  he  found  himself  wishing 
profoundly  that  Maida  had  been  just  a  little  tactful. 
She  might  so  easily  have  added :  "  You  '11  find  it  in 
the  ice  box  in  the  pantry  —  the  second  door  to  the 
left,  down  the  hall."  It  was  one  thing  to  be  open 

and  aboveboard,  and  another  to  —  to Well, 

anyway,  a  woman,  however  young,  however 
straightforward,  ought  to  have  intuitively  some 
little  notion  how  to  play  the  game. 

Oh,  the  relief  he  felt  when,  after  what  seemed  td 
him  an  interminable  stay,  Molly  rose  to  go !  Oh, 
the  relief  it  was  to  take  up  his  overcoat  and  hat; 

191 


AFTER  THIRTY 

to  find  himself  moving  downstairs,  out  upon  the 
dusky  street,  into  the  automobile  beside  his  wife! 
In  the  automobile,  however,  the  feeling  of  relief 
abated. 

What  did  Molly  think  of  Maida?  What  would 
she  say? 

He  waited.     But  Molly  spoke  of  other  things. 

"  Well,"  he  ventured  when  he  could  bear  the 
suspense  no  longer,  "  did  you  have  a  pleasant  time?  " 

"Yes,"  said  Molly.  Then  she  asked:  "Did 
you?" 

"  Of  course,"  he  replied,  feeling  vaguely  irritated 
at  the  question. 

There  was  a  pause. 

"Don't  you  think  her  nice?"  he  said  at  length. 

"  Certainly.     Very  nice." 

"  Molly,"  he  said  impatiently,  "  what  I  'm  trying 
to  get  at  is:  What  do  you  think  of  her?" 

"  Oh,  that 's  what  you  want  to  know  ?  Well,  I 
think  she  's  young  and  pretty  and  talented  and  tem- 
permental  and  sentimental  and " 

"  Sentimental  ?     Nonsense !  " 

"  No,  it 's  not  nonsense.  But  I  can  tell  better 
about  that  after  she  has  been  to  the  house  for 
dinner  once  or  twice." 

192 


MOLLY  CALLS  ON  MAIDA 

"  Oh,  we'll,"  he  returned  in  a  large,  leisurely 
tone,  "  there  's  no  need  to  be  in  any  special  rush  to 
have  her  at  the  house  for  dinner.  I  just  wanted 
you  to  be  polite  —  to  show  some  interest  in  her,  you 
know  —  after  her  having  been  so  —  so  decent  to 
me.  But  your  having  gone  down  there  to-day  fixes 
that  for  the  present." 

Molly  appeared  to  have  become  suddenly  inter 
ested  in  the  glittering  maelstrom  of  the  brilliantly 
lighted  avenue.  He  could  not  see  her  face. 

"  I  don't  feel  so,"  she  said.  "  I  want  to  be  par 
ticularly  nice  to  her." 

"  Why  ? "  From  his  tone  one  might  almost 
have  supposed  that  he  did  not  wish  her  to  be  par 
ticularly  nice  to  Maida. 

"  For  the  reason  you  just  mentioned,"  she  replied 
over  her  shoulder. 

"What  reason?" 

"  Because  she  was  so  nice  to  you." 

"  But,"  he  answered  quickly,  a  note  of  protest 
in  his  voice,  "if  it  comes  to  that,  I  've  been  nice 
to  her  too.  I  don't  feel  that  there  's  any  real  obli 
gation  either  way." 

"  From  what  I  understand,"  his  wife  answered, 
"  I  can't  agree  with  you.  You  say  you  have  dined 

193 


there  frequently,  letting  her  get  dinner  for  you,  aivl 
that  you  have  taken  her  out  to  dinner  once  or  twice. 
It  seems  to  me  she  has  done  a  great  deal,  and  that 
you  have  done  very  little." 

Wickett  hesitated  for  a  moment  before  replying. 

"I  forgot  to  mention,"  he  said,  "that  I  had 
given  her  some  little  presents." 

"  Oh,"  she  said. 

'  Yes  —  an  electric   toaster,   and  a   few   books, 
and  such  things." 

"  Oh." 

Their  limousine  had  merged  itself  with  the  triple 
row  of  motors  arrested  on  the  east  side  of  the 
Avenue  before  the  Public  Library,  awaiting  the 
permissive  whistle  of  the  traffic  policeman  at  the 
Forty-second  Street  crossing.  Molly's  face  was 
still  turned  toward  the  window. 

"  So,"  he  continued,  "  you  see  accounts  are  quite 
square." 

"  Yours  and  hers  may  be,"  she  answered.  "  No 
doubt  they  are.  I  'm  thinking  of  my  own  obliga 
tion." 

"Yours?"  he  said  in  a  perplexed  tone  as  the 
traffic  policeman's  whistle  sounded  and  the  motors 
started  to  move  on. 

194 


MOLLY  CALLS  ON  MAIDA 

"  Yes.  The  obligation  of  a  wife  who  has  been 
away,  to  a  nice  girl  who  —  who  has  kept  her  hus 
band  from  —  from  getting  too  lonely  during  her 
absence." 

He  shot  a  quick  suspicious  glance  in  her  direc 
tion,  but  was  still  unable  to  see  her  face. 

"  It 's  good  of  you  to  feel  that  way  about 
it,"  he  said,  without  enthusiasm,  "  but  I  don't 
think  there's  the  least  need  of  it  —  not  the  very 
least." 

Molly  did  not  reply. 

As  the  limousine  sped  across  the  Forty-second 
Street  intersection  a  middle-aged  man  who  was 
standing  on  the  corner,  trying  to  make  up  his  mind 
whether  to  walk  home  or  take  a  Fifth  Avenue  bus, 
chanced  to  glance  up  and  see  Molly's  face  in  the 
window. 

He  looked  after  the  car  as  it  flew  up  the  Avenue. 
Then  turning  up  the  ends  of  his  mustache  and 
throwing  back  his  shoulders  he  stepped  out  jauntily 
toward  home,  where  his  little  wife  and  five  children 
awaited  him. 

"  I  '11  walk,"  he  thought.  "  It  will  make  me  late 
for  dinner,  but  I  '11  walk.  I  must  walk  more.  It 
keeps  one  young." 

195 


AFTER  THIRTY 

He  took  a  brisk  gait,  swinging  his  arms  more 
than  usual. 

"  I  'm  not  in  the  has-been  class  yet,"  he  reflected 
complacently.  "  That  was  a  mighty  pretty  woman 
in  that  limousine,  and  she  was  certainly  smiling 
straight  at  me." 


CHAPTER  XXII 

MAIDA    DECIDES 

SITTING  in  her  studio  at  dusk  some  three  weeks 
later,  looking  out  over  the  snow-covered  roofs 
of  the  houses  across  the  street,  toward  the  twinkling 
windows  of  some  loft  buildings  which  circumscribed 
the  view  to  the  northward,  Maida  pondered  the 
situation. 

Shelley  Wickett  was  terribly  repressed.  His 
fine  sensitive  April  spirit  was  being  crushed  within 
him.  He  was  starving  for  the  want  of  understand 
ing. 

Her  mind  reverted  to  the  evening  on  which  he 
had  told  her  that  his  wife  was  coming  home.  Look 
ing  back,  she  perceived  that  the  change  in  him  had 
begun  to  manifest  itself  while  he  was  making  that 
communication.  It  was  as  though  the  shadow  of 
his  wife  had  fallen  darkly  on  his  spirits  before 
her  actual  arrival.  Thenceforward  matters  had 
grown  worse.  She  thought  of  the  afternoon  on 
which  she  had  first  met  Mrs.  Wickett  —  that  after- 

197 


AFTER  THIRTY 

noon  when  he  had  brought  her  down  to  the  studio 
to  tea.  On  that  occasion  he  was  not  himself  at  all. 

She  had  at  first  attributed  his  new  constraint  to 
concern  over  what  she  would  think  of  his  wife, 
but  that  idea  she  had  been  forced  by  subsequent 
events  to  discard,  at  least  in  part.  The  first  time 
she  dined  at  their  house  she  saw  that  the  root  of 
the  trouble  lay  deeper  than  that.  All  that  evening 
he  had  been  painfully  distrait,  showing  now  and 
then  a  gayety  obviously  false,  now  lapsing  into 
brooding  silence.  Though  she  had  been  placed  by 
him  at  table,  he  had  spoken  to  her  very  little,  and 
when  he  did  so  his  manner  was  self-conscious  and 
embarrassed;  but  though  most  of  his  attention 
seemed  to  be  given  to  the  lady  at  the  other  side, 
Maida,  with  the  psychic  perception  of  one  born  in 
December,  knew  that  he  was  keeping  one  ear 
cocked  in  her  direction,  listening  to  everything  she 
said.  Poor  boy!  Denied  the  happiness  of  close 
communion  with  her,  he  had  to  take  vicarious  com 
fort  from  what  he  heard  her  say  to  others. 

Twice,  at  her  solicitation,  he  had  dropped  in  at 
the  studio  on  his  way  home  from  business,  but 
though  she  had  tried  to  call  back  the  old  atmosphere 
of  sympathetic  comprehension,  it  would  not  return. 

198 


MAIDA  DECIDES 

He  had  all  too  clearly  been  restless,  preoccupied, 
unhappy. 

The  source  of  his  suffering  was,  in  Maida's  eyes, 
quite  evident.  His  wife  did  not  understand  him. 
Naturally  not!  She  was  born  in  March.  She 
did  not  vibrate  on  the  same  pkne  as  her  husband. 
She  was  just  a  pretty,  domestic,  maternal  creature, 
who  knew  how  to  wear  expensive  evening  gowns, 
get  her  hair  up  effectively  and  give  conventional 
course  dinners.  She  was  full  of  affability  and 
social  graces,  but  she  had,  Maida  was  persuaded, 
the  soul  of  a  canary.  In  the  atmosphere  she  made 
about  him,  Shelley's  beautiful  nature  was  wither 
ing. 

What  was  to  be  done?  Was  she,  Maida  —  the 
only  person,  perhaps,  in  the  whole  world  who  knew 
the  real  Shelley  —  to  sit  idly  by  while  such  a  thing 
went  on?  Was  that  the  course  of  a  true  friend? 
\Vas  it  the  course  of  a  free  spirit  in  tune  with  the 
infinite?  "  No!  "  cried  every  instinct  she  possessed. 

Instinct ! 

What  had  the  fortune  teller  said?  Had  he  not 
told  her  to  follow  her  instincts;  that  they  would 
invariably  be  right  —  especially  in  cases  where  she 
vibrated  on  the  same  plane  with  some  one? 

199 


AFTER  THIRTY 

She  moved  over  to  the  large  table,  turned  on 
the  lamp  —  the  shade  of  which  was  the  one  deco 
rated  with  the  signs  of  the  zodiac  —  and  read  the 
chapter  headed  December: 

Persons  born  during  this  month,  though  impulsive, 
are  honest  and  conscientious  to  a  fault.  They  have 
their  own  way  of  doing  things,  and  this  often  con 
fuses  their  friends  and  causes  children  of  December 
to  be  unsuccessful  in  handling  the  affairs  of  others. 
They  are  extreme  in  their  likes  and  dislikes,  are  likely 
to  love  whole-heartedly,  but  resent  any  interference 
with  their  individuality,  and  usually  despise  whatever 
they  cannot  or  will  not  understand. 

She  read  on.  Ah!  Here  was  the  passage  for 
which  she  was  looking: 

They  are  thoughtful,  artistic,  sympathetic,  and 
so  quick  of  perception  as  to  be  almost  psychic.  They 
are  endowed  with  temperament  and  personality  to  a 
marked  degree,  and  should  invariably  follow  their  in 
spirations,  however  extreme  these  may  seem,  as  they 
are  almost  certain  to  be  right.  They  have  an  instinc 
tive  love  of  openness,  truth  and  plain  dealing,  and 
should  give  this  instinct  free  rein. 

She  placed  a  scrap  of  paper  in  the  book  to  mark 
the  place,  closed  it  and  sat  for  a  time  in  deep 

200 


MAIDA  DECIDES 

ought.  She  knew  well  what  instinct  dictated. 
But  this  was  Christmas  Eve,  the  busiest  night  in 
the  whole  year.  The  Wicketts  might  be  having 
company,  and  even  were  they  not,  Shelley  was 
almost  certain  to  be  at  home.  Moreover,  she  her 
self  had  promised  to  attend  a  party  down  in  Green 
wich  Village.  Would  it  not  be  best,  considering 
all  these  factors,  to  wait  until  the  Christmas  rush 
was  over? 

Reason  said  "  Yes,"  but  instinct  —  the  unerring 
instinct  of  the  December-born  —  shouted  "No!" 

Maida  rose,  went  to  her  bedroom,  called  up  Mrs. 
Wickett  and  asked  to  see  her  that  evening. 

"Why  — yes,"  said  Molly.  "After  dinner 
Shelley  and  I  are  going  to  trim  the  children's 
tree.  Could  you  come  then?  " 

"  I  should  like  to  see  you  alone,  if  possible," 
Maida  said. 

"  Oh,  I  see,"  said  Molly,  who,  herself  surrounded 
by  Christmas  packages  and  with  her  heart  full  of 
the  season's  spirit,  fancied  she  scented  something  in 
the  nature  of  a  Christmas  surprise  for  her  hus 
band.  "  I  '11  get  him  out  of  the  house  somehow. 
I  '11  send  him  with  presents  to  some  friends.  Will 
you  come  about  half  past  eight?  " 

201 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

THE   CHRISTMAS   TREE 

THE  Christmas  tree,  as  yet  untrimmed,  was 
standing  in  the  corner  of  the  Wicketts'  living- 
room  ;  on  the  tables  and  the  floor  about  it  were  innu 
merable  packages  gayly  wrapped  and  tagged,  and 
boxes  in  which  lay  varicolored  glass  balls,  large  and 
small,  tinsel,  artificial  snow  and  icicles,  and  strings 
of  minute  electric  lights  ready  to  be  distributed 
among  the  dark  green  branches. 

As  Maida  entered,  Molly  was  engaged  in  un 
tangling  several  strings  of  shiny  glass  balls,  which 
had  become  entwined. 

"  Oh,  good  evening,  Miss  Greenwood,"  she  ex 
claimed.  "  It 's  so  nice  in  you  to  have  thought  of 
coming  up.  I  got  Shelley  out  as  I  agreed  to." 

"  I  'm  glad  of  that,"  Maida  said,  hesitating  in  the 
middle  of  the  room. 

Still  full  of  her  idea  that  the  call  was  a  season- 
202 


THE  CHRISTMAS  TREE 

able  one,  and  perceiving  that  Maida  carried  a  book, 
Molly  held  out  her  hand  to  take  it,  saying :  "  For 
Shelley?  I  '11  see  that  it  is  put  with  his  other  pres 
ents,  where  he  won't  find  it  until  morning." 

Maida  made  no  move. 

"It's  not  that,  Mrs.  Wickett,"  she  said.  "I 
came  to  talk  with  you." 

"  How  stupid  of  me !  "  Molly  exclaimed.  "  Well 
we  can  talk  while  I  'm  getting  these  trimmings  sorted 
out.  I  try  to  put  them  away  carefully  every  year, 
but  some  of  them  always  seem  to  get  broken,  and 
invariably  there  's  a  tangle.  Did  you  ever  see  any 
thing  like  it?" 

Maida  stood  silent.  What  a  completely  material 
istic  woman  Mrs.  Wickett  was!  Truly,  an  earth- 
bound  spirit.  How  typical  of  her  that  she  could 
be  consumed  with  interest  in  these  gewgaws  and 
oblivious  to  the  fact  that  she  was  smothering  the 
noble  and  delicate  nature  of  her  husband.  Her 
trivial  line  of  thought,  her  inconsequential  chatter, 
made  it  hard  to  begin.  Why,  when  she  had  said  so 
significantly,  "  I  came  to  talk  with  you,"  had  not 
Mrs.  Wickett  the  common  sense  to  make  the  obvious 
inquiry:  "What  about?"  Yet  she  had  gone  on 
prattling  about  tree  trimmings. 

203 


AFTER  THIRTY 

Maida  felt  that  she  must  try  again. 

"  I  came  to  talk  about  a  very  serious  matter," 
she  said  in  a  grave  tone. 

Molly  glanced  up  at  her  with  a  quick  motion 
of  the  head  like  that  of  a  bird;  then  as  quickly  she 
looked  down  again  at  the  tangled  strings  of  glass 
balls  in  her  lap. 

"  A  very  serious  matter  ?  "  she  repeated,  in  the 
tone  she  might  have  used  if  instead  she  had  said 
"  A  chocolate  cake  ?  "  "A  very  serious  matter  on 
Christmas  Eve?  Oh,  no,  Miss  Greenwood!" 

She  had  the  air  of  genially  brushing  the  idea  aside 
as  something  impossibly  bizarre. 

"  But  I  am  in  earnest ! "  insisted  Maida,  still 
standing  in  the  center  of  the  room.  "  I  have  come 
to " 

"  But  you  're  not  in  earnest !  "  Molly  insisted  witn 
what  seemed  amiable  incredulity.  "  Who  ever 
heard  of  such  a  thing  as  a  solemn  talk  on  Christmas 
Eve  ?  Such  things  don't  happen.  Now  you  pull  tip 
that  chair  and  help  me  with  this  tangle,  and  then 
we  '11  get  all  the  other  trimmings  ready  and  —  oh, 
before  you  sit  down  would  you  mind  ringing?  — 
the  button  's  over  there  by  the  door  —  and  we  '11 
have  the  stepladder  brought  in." 

204 


THE  CHRISTMAS  TREE 

Maida  hesitated  for  a  moment.  Then  she 
crossed  and  rang. 

"  Mrs.  Wickett,"  she  insisted  as  she  moved  back, 
"  the  fact  that  it  is  Christmas  Eve  should  only  em 
phasize  the  importance,  the  very  grave  importance, 
of  what  I  came  to  talk  about.  If  it  were  some 
thing  having  to  do  with  me  alone,  I  should  not 
have  thought  of  - 

As  the  maid  appeared  at  the  door  she  stopped 
speaking. 

"  Oh,  Hilda,  would  you  please  bring  in  the  small 
stepladder?" 

"  Yes'm."     The  girl  turned  to  go. 

"  And  Hilda !  Have  we  an  old  sheet  —  a  very 
large  one  ?  " 

"  Yes'm." 

"  Bring  that,  too." 

"  Yes'm." 

As  Hilda  withdrew  Molly  explained  to  Maida : 

"  Perhaps  you  wonder  what  I  want  with  a  sheet  ? 
I  'm  going  to  put  it  all  round  the  bottom  of  the  tree, 
on  the  floor.  Can  you  guess  why  ? "  She  gave 
added  force  to  the  interrogation  by  looking  expect 
antly  at  the  other  woman. 

Maida,  though  she  did  not  wish  to  become  in- 
205 


AFTER  THIRTY 

volved  in  a  discussion  of  Christmas  tree  appurte 
nances,  though  every  fibre  in  her  being  rebelled  at 
such  a  thing,  had  no  choice  but  to  answer. 

"  I  'm  sure  I  have  n't  the  very  least  idea,"  she 
replied  with  every  evidence  of  indifference,  if  not 
scorn. 

"Then,"  asserted  Molly  brightly,  "I  can  tell 
you  one  thing:  You've  never  used  any  of  this 
artificial  snow."  She  held  out  a  box  of  the  white 
glistening  stuff  for  Maida's  inspection.  "  It  looks 
pretty  but  it 's  awfully  sticky.  We  had  a  frightful 
time  getting  it  out  of  the  rugs  last  year.  I  was  n't 
going  to  have  it  again,  but  Shelley  likes  it,  so  we  're 
going  to.  Hence  the  sheet.  Now  come  and  sit 
down  —  do." 

With  evident  reluctance  Maida  moved  forward 
and  slowly  let  herself  descend  into  the  proffered 
chair.  After  a  moment's  pause  she  opened  her 
lips  as  though  to  speak. 

"  And  now,"  said  Molly  quickly,  "  to  return  to 
the  thing  you  were  mentioning  —  serious  talks  on 
Christmas  Eve.  As  I  was  about  to  say,  I  don't 
believe  in  such  things,  and  I  don't  believe  you  do 
either  —  not  when  you  stop  to  think  about  it.  Do 


you? 


206 


THE  CHRISTMAS  TREE 

"  Not   ordinarily,    perhaps,"    the   girl    returned ; 

but  under  the  circumstances " 

"  No,  not  under  any  circumstances,"  Molly  ran 
m.  "  Christmas  Eve  or  no  Christmas  Eve,  a  se- 
•ious  talk  is  not  something  to  commence  on  impulse. 
All  of  us  have  impulses,  now  and  then,  to  go  to 
some  one  and  declare  ourselves,  and  turn  things 
topsy-turvy.  When  we  yield  to  such  an  impulse 
we  always  begin  by  saying  we  have  come  for  a 
serious  talk.  Sometimes,  too,  the  person  to  whom 
we  have  gone  can  guess  quite  accurately,  from 
observations  of  his  own,  just  about  what  we  intend 
to  say.  And  sometimes  he  will  attempt  to  prevent 
our  saying  what  we  have  in  mind,  because  he  knows 
that  if  we  succeed  in  saying  it,  we  may  bitterly 
regret  it,  later.  Remember,  I  am  a  good  deal  older 
than  you  are.  I  assure  you  impulses  are  often  very 
dangerous  things." 

"  For  some  they  may  be,"  Maida  answered,  "  but 
for  others  they  are  the  best  possible  guide.  People 
born  in  my  month  regret  it,  not  if  they  follow  their 
impulses,  but  if  they  fail  to  follow  them." 

"What  makes  you  think  so?" 

"  I  've  noticed  it,"  the  girl  returned  eagerly;  "  and 
—  look  at  this !  "  She  opened  the  book  at  the  place 

207 


AFTER  THIRTY 

marked  by  the  scrap  of  paper  and  offered  it  to 
Molly,  indicating  the  page. 

"  M-m,  m-m,  m-m  " —  Molly  made  a  little  inartic 
ulate  humming  sound  as  her  eye  ran  down  the  page. 
Then  suddenly  aloud  she  read: 

"  They  have  their  own  way  of  doing  things,  and 
this  often  .  .  .  causes  children  of  December  to  be 
unsuccessful  in  handling  the  affairs  of  others." 

"  No,  no,"  said  Maida  impatiently,  pointing  to 
the  succeeding  paragraph. 

Again  Molly  read  aloud: 

"  They  are  endowed  with  temperament  and  per 
sonality  to  a  marked  degree,  and  should  invaribly 
follow  their  inspirations,  however  extreme  these 
may  seem,  as  they  are  almost  certain  to  be  right." 

"You  see?"     Maida  gazed  at  ner  intently. 

"  But,"  said  Molly,  "  does  n't  it  seem  to  you  that 
those  two  statements  contradict  each  other?  I  see 
it  says  they  should  follow  their  inspirations,  but 
is  n't  that  discounted  by  the  statement  that  they  are 
unsuccessful  in  handling  the  affairs  of  others?  I 
should  say  it  implied  very  clearly  that  they  should 
follow  their  inspirations  only  where  their  inspira 
tions  applied  strictly  to  themselves.  Does  n't  it 
strike  you  so?  " 

208 


THE  CHRISTMAS  TREE 

"  That 's  a  mere  detail,"  Maida  answered.  "  The 
interpretation  of  it  depends  on  one's  point  of  view. 
For  my  part  I  believe  there  can  be  such  a  thing 
as  —  as  a  sacred  duty.  I  mean,  where  you  under 
stand  somebody  and " 

At  this  juncture  Hilda,  who  had  already  brought 
the  sheet  reappeared  carrying  the  stepladder,  which 
she  set  up  near  the  tree.  When  she  departed  again 
Maida  resumed: 

" where  you  understand  somebody  and  you 

see  that " 

There,  however,  she  was  once  more  interrupted, 
this  time  by  an  exclamation  from  Molly.  Two  of 
the  entangled  strings  had  broken,  letting  a  score 
of  the  glass  balls  roll  down  upon  the  rug. 

"  Oh,  good  gracious !  "  cried  Molly,  getting  down 
to  gather  them  up,  while  Maida,  though  she  did 
not  feel  disposed  to  do  so,  picked  up  those  that 
had  rolled  to  her  feet. 

"  Now  let 's  see,"  reflected  Molly  aloud  when  the 
frail,  bright-colored  globes  were  re-collected.  "  I 
must  get  some  thin  string  to  thread  them  again. 
It  seems  to  me  there  was  a  ball  of  thin  string  some 
where  in  Shelley's  desk." 

She  crossed  the  room  and  fumbled  in  one  drawer 
209 


AFTER  THIRTY 

after  another  until  she  reached  the  bottom  one, 
which  she  had  some  difficulty  in  opening,  so  packed 
it  was  with  those  odds  and  ends  often  contained  in 
the  bottom  drawers  of  desks. 

While  Molly,  in  her  search,  removed  some  of  the 
uppermost  things  from  the  drawer  Maida  watched 
her  abstractedly.  She  felt  helpless,  uneasy,  baffled. 
The  strong  determination  to  speak  her  mind,,  which 
had  at  first  possessed  her,  was  somehow  failing. 
Matters  had  not  gone  at  all  as  she  expected. 
Visioning  in  advance  the  scene  between  herself  and 
Mrs.  Wickett  she  had  descried  herself  the  dominant 
figure,  with  Molly  gazing  at  her,  wide-eyed,  silent, 
perhaps  tearful,  as  the  error  of  her  ways  was 
pointed  out.  But  it  had  not  been  like  that.  She 
had  not  dominated.  To  try  to  dominate  a  woman 
as  scatter-brained  as  Mrs.  Wickett  was  like  trying 
to  pick  up  quicksilver  between  the  thumb  and  fore 
finger. 

"  The  string  does  n't  seem  to  be  here,"  said  Molly, 
now  seated  on  the  floor  with  some  un framed  photo 
graphs  in  her  lap,  "  but  I  've  come  across  something 
that  reminds  me  of  one  of  those  ill-advised  serious 
talks  of  which  we  have  been  speaking."  She  smiled 
reminiscently,  looking  at  the  uppermost  photograph, 


THE  CHRISTMAS  TREE 

then  added :  "  I  had  forgotten  that  we  ever  had  a 
picture  of  the  woman.  I  'm  surprised  that  Shelley 
kept  it." 

Maida,  who  had  not  been  interested,  became  so 
on  hearing  the  last  sentence. 

Molly  rose  and  laid  the  photographs  upon  the 
table.  The  top  one  was  that  of  a  handsome,  dark, 
slender  woman  in  evening  dress.  It  showed  signs 
of  having  been  removed  from  a  frame,  and  Maida 
saw  that  it  was  inscribed  to  Shelley,  the  inscription 
being 

Toujoitrs  d,  tol,  L£NA. 

written  in  a  bold,  dashing  hand. 

"She's  a  good-looking  woman,  isn't  she?" 
Molly  said.  "  And  you  'd  think  from  her  picture 
that  she  had  sense." 

"  Yes,"  Maida  agreed. 

"  She  'd  have  struck  you  that  way,  at  first,  if 
you  had  met  her,  too,"  Molly  went  on.  "  She  was 
thoroughly  presentable  and  seemed  intelligent. 
Men  took  to  her  —  and  she  to  them.  But,  my  dear, 
you  '11  never  believe  what  she  did !  I  can  hardly 
believe  it  myself,  now." 

Evidently   what   the   lady   had   done   had   some 

211 


AFTER  THIRTY 

bearing  upon  Shelley.  Maida's  curiosity  was  ris 
ing. 

"What  did  she  do?"  she  asked. 

"  Well,  in  the  first  place,  though  you  may  not 
know  him  well  enough  to  have  noticed  it,"  Molly 
replied,  "  I  can  tell  you  that  Shelley  is  very  attrac 
tive  to  women.  I  don't  suppose  it 's  his  fault,  poor 
dear,  but  every  now  and  then  some  woman  gets 
quite  agitated  about  him  and  gives  him  a  bad  half 
hour;  and  sometimes  they  make  me  a  little  trouble. 
But  this  one  was  the  worst —  far  the  worst." 

Maida  was  now  gazing  at  her  with  large,  aston 
ished  eyes. 

"  You  know  how  some  women  are,  when  they  get 
silly, about  a  man,"  Molly  continued.  "They  get 
to  thinking  they  're  the  only  ones  who  understand 
him.  But  it 's  one  thing  to  think  that,  and  quite 
another  to  go  to  the  man's  wife  and  try  to  explain 
such  a  sweet  little  notion  to  her.  Yet  —  would  you 
believe  it  ?  —  that 's  what  this  woman  did.  She 
actually  came  and  undertook  to  tell  me  she  under 
stood  my  husband  better  than  I  did.  According  to 
her  I  did  n't  understand  him  at  all.  It  was  in  the 
days  when  they  talked  so  much  about  affinities.  I 
remember  she  used  that  word  a  great  deal.  And 

212 


THE  CHRISTMAS  TREE 

what  do  you  suppose  she  wound  up  with?  With 
the  calm  suggestion  that  I  give  him  up  to  her.  Yes. 
Absolutely ! " 

"  What  happened  ? "  asked  Maida  in  a  small 
voice. 

"  Nothing  much.  I  gave  her  some  smelling  salts 
and  suggested  that  she  'd  be  better  off  in  her  own 
home.  Of  course  I  had  to  tell  Shelley  about  it. 
We  were  both  terribly  ashamed  for  her,  and  natu 
rally  he  was  furious.  Well,  that 's  an  example  of 
what  a  woman  can  do  on  impulse.  No  doubt  if  she 
had  considered  a  little  she  'd  have  known  better. 
But  she  thought  herself  temperamental,  and  she  lost 
her  self-control,  poor  thing !  " 

She  gathered  up  the  photographs,  put  them  back 
in  the  drawer  and  closed  it. 

Maida  was  silent,  staring  into  space. 

"  Now,"  said  Molly,  "  do  you  know  what  I  think 
would  be  nice  ?  Let 's  start  trimming  the  tree. 
Suppose  we  surprise  Shelley  by  having  a  lot  of  it 
done?" 

So  saying  she  took  up  the  sheet,  unfolded  it,  and 
dropping  to  her  knees  began  to  spread  it  about  the 
bottom  of  the  tree. 

"  You  be  getting  out  the  strings  of  tinsel  and  the 
213 


AFTER  THIRTY 

glass  icicles  and  things  from  the  boxes  on  the  table, 
will  you  ?  "  she  directed,  without  looking  up. 

"  Yes,"  answered  the  other  faintly. 

When,  having  arranged  the  sheet,  Molly  rose  to 
her  feet  she  was  careful  not  to  look  at  Maida  for  a 
while. 

But  the  traces  of  tears  were  not  altogether  oblit 
erated  from  the  girl's  eyes  when  presently  Shelley 
returned. 


214 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

SOUVENIRS 

AS  he  caught  sight  of  Maida,  something  peculiar 
happened  to  Wickett's  breathing  apparatus. 
What  could  she  be  doing  here  alone  with  Mclly? 
What  could  have  brought  her?  Had  Molly  known 
that  she  was  coming? 

For  a  moment  he  had  the  reassuring  thought  that 
at  least  everything  seemed  to  be  going  pleasantly. 
Molly  was  on  the  stepladder  hanging  things  upon  the 
half-trimmed  tree,  while  Maida  stood  below  handing 
them  up  to  her. 

"  I  have  a  good  place  here  for  another  of  those 
big  silver  balls,"  he  heard  his  wife  saying. 

"  Here  's  the  last  one,"  answered  Maida,  placing 
it  in  Molly's  outstretched  hand. 

"  Why  —  good  evening !  "  he  said,  advancing 
into  the  room. 

"  You  came  back  too  soon,"  protested  Molly. 
"  We  were  trying  to  get  it  all  trimmed,  to  surprise 


you." 


215 


AFTER  THIRTY 

Maida  did  not  look  at  him. 

No,  things  were  n't  right  at  all.  Molly  was  too 
busy,  too  vivacious;  and  Maida,  he  now  saw,  car 
ried  in  her  face  the  signs  of  recent  weeping.  Some 
thing  had  been  going  on.  Had  there  been  a  scene? 
He  thought  of  the  affair  of  Lena  Brundage,  and 
shuddered.  Could  it  be  possible  that  Maida,  too, 
had  come  up  and  tried  to  start  something?  He 
signaled  Molly  to  follow  him  out  of  the  room,  but 
seemingly  she  did  not  see  the  signal,  for  though 
he  went,  she  continued  to  decorate  the  tree;  where 
fore,  after  waiting  for  a  time,  he  was  obliged  to 
return. 

"  Come  and  help  us,  you  lazy  thing,"  said  Molly. 

He  came  and  helped  awkwardly,  trying  to  conceal, 
in  a  pother  of  small  talk,  his  annovance  and  appre 
hension. 

Tears!  How  he  hated  tears!  Why  did  women 
always  cry  if  you  gave  them  half  a  chance?  How 
boresome  they  could  be ! 

The  trimming  of  the  tree  consumed  endless  time. 
Meanwhile  Molly  kept  up  her  steady  stream  of  chat 
ter.  He,  too,  tried  to  do  his  share,  but  Maida  spoke 
little  and  kept  her  face  averted.  She  might  have 
tried  to  help  along  a  little! 

216 


SOUVENIRS 

"  There !  "  sighed  Molly  when  all  the  trimmings 
were  in  place.  "  How  does  it  look?  " 

"  Fine !  "  he  said,  hardly  glancing  at  the  tree,  but 
eager  that  the  evening's  occupation  should  be  ended. 

"What  do  you  think,  Maida?"  Molly  asked. 
'  You  don't  mind  my  calling  you  that,  do  you?  " 

"  It 's  very  pretty.  No,  I  '11  be  pleased.  I  think 
I  '11  say  good  night  now.  I  was  going  to  a  party 
downtown,  and " 

Molly  looked  significantly  at  Shelley.  Then  as  he 
did  not  speak  she  said :  "  Shelley  will  be  delighted 
to  drive  you  down,  I  know." 

"  Of  course,"  he  said.     "  Delighted." 

When  he  had  telephoned  for  a  taxicab  he  waited 
eagerly,  hoping  that  while  Maida  was  putting  on 
her  cloak  Molly  would  find  a  moment's  time  in  which 
to  give  him  some  inkling  of  the  situation;  but  no 
such  comfort  was  accorded  him. 

A  few  moments  later  the  taxi  was  announced 
and  he  found  himself  leaving  the  house  very  reluc 
tantly  with  a  young  lady  whom  he  now  regarded  as 
a  dangerous  little  bunch  of  temperament,  and  whose 
present  thoughts  and  emotions  he  was  very  curious, 
and  at  the  same  time  very  much  afraid,  to  know. 
Nor  did  he  doubt  that  he  was  about  to  learn  them  — 

217 


AFTER  THIRTY 

and  that  the  experience  would  be  a  disagreeable  one. 
As  they  crossed  the  walk  toward  the  cab  there 
came  to  him  vividly,  grotesquely,  the  memory  of 
another  time  when  he  had  stepped  with  Maida 
toward  a  waiting  taxi.  He  had  been  afraid  to  pro 
pose  that  first  drive,  but  ah,  how  much  more  afraid 
to  propose  this  one!  He  remembered  the  almost 
ecstatic  feeling  of  delicate  adventure,  of  aliveness, 
of  recrudescent  youth,  that  he  had  felt  as  they  set 
forth  that  other  time.  That  night  the  streets  had 
shone  with  rain;  to-night  they  shone  with  melted 
snow.  It  was  the  same,  yet  not  the  same  at  all. 

It  was  a  long  drive  down  to  Greenwich  Village, 
and  though  the  drive  home  was  infinitely  shorter, 
Molly  had  retired  when  he  reached  the  house  again. 
Her  bedroom  door  was  closed.  Despite  his  great 
anxiety  to  hear  what  she  might  have  to  say,  he 
thought  it  wiser  not  to  run  the  risk  of  waking  her, 
especially  to-night,  when  they  must  rise  so  early  for 
the  morrow's  celebration  with  the  children. 

So  be  it,  then.  The  talk  could  wait.  But  there 
was  one  thing,  one  most  important  thing,  that  he 
must  see  to  before  he  went  to  bed. 

Going  to  his  own  room  he  opened  a  closet  door, 
218 


SOUVENIRS 

and  standing  in  the  seat  of  a  chair,  reached  down 
from  the  topmost  shelf  a  very  large,  light,  carefully 
wrapped  package.  Carrying  it  to  the  living-room 
he  placed  it  on  the  table  and  proceeded  to  untie  the 
ribbons  with  which  the  paper  covering  was  bound. 

As  the  wrappings  fell  away,  the  contents  of  the 
package  was  revealed.  It  was  a  lamp  shade  —  the 
lamp  shade  he  had  bought  of  Maida  that  first  night 
at  the  bazaar. 

Seated  in  a  chair  before  the  embers  still  faintly 
burning  in  the  grate  he  held  the  shade  up,  and  caus 
ing  it  to  revolve  slowly,  inspected  with  care  the 
series  of  six  parchment  panels,  with  their  pictures. 

Now,  for  the  first  time,  he  observed  that  there 
was  sequence  to  these  pictures  —  that  the  story  of 
Harlequin  and  Columbine  progressed  round  the 
shade.  In  the  first  picture  Harlequin  was  peering 
at  her  through  a  half-open  door;  in  the  second,  kiss 
ing  her  hand ;  in  the  third,  dancing  with  her,  madly : 
in  the  fourth,  kneeling  before  her,  hand  on  heart; 
in  the  fifth,  embracing  her;  but  in  the  sixth  panel 
the  two  were  seated  back  to  back,  as  far  apart  as 
might  be,  their  heads  bowed  in  grief. 

A  tag,  which  he  had  prepared  some  time  since, 
was  attached  to  one  of  the  wires  of  the  frame.  On 

219 


AFTER  THIRTY 

it  he  had  written,  after  some  thought  as  to  an  appro 
priate  inscription,  the  words: 

For  Molly,  with  love  and  Christmas  greetings,  from 
Shelley. 

Drawing  out  his  pocketknife  he  removed  the  tag 
and  threw  it  into  the  fire. 

Then  he  slit,  one  after  another,  the  threads  that 
held  the  parchment  panels  to  the  frame.  When 
they  were  all  removed,  he  placed  them  on  the  em 
bers,  and  after  watching  them  burn,  beat  them  to 
fragments  with  the  poker. 

Only  the  frame  remained.  Into  this  he  stuffed 
the  wrappings  and  the  ribbons,  and  with  them  re 
turned  to  his  own  room,  where,  mounting  the  chair 
again,  he  put  them  back  on  the  top  shelf  of  the  closet, 
crowding  them  as  far  to  the  rear  as  possible. 

Then  he  returned  to  the  living-room,  sat  down 
at  the  desk,  and  drew  a  check  to  Molly.  It  was 
rather  a  large  check.  Having  written  it  he  tore  it 
up  and  wrote  another,  for  double  the  amount.  This 
he  placed  in  an  envelope,  upon  the  outside  of  which, 
after  some  thought  as  to  an  appropriate  inscription, 
he  wrote : 

220 


SOUVENIRS 

For  Molly,  with  love  and  Christmas  greetings,  from 

Shelley. 

This  done,  he  drew  from  his  breast  pocket  a  pig 
skin  wallet,  and  from  it  removed  a  photograph,  at 
which  he  looked  intently  for  a  time.  It  was  a  pic 
ture  of  Maida  in  fancy  dress  —  as  Columbine. 

He  rose,  sighing  as  he  did  so,  crossed  slowly  to  the 
fireplace,  bent  over,  and  held  the  little  picture  poised 
above  the  embers. 

Then,  instead  of  letting  go  of  it,  he  drew  it  back 
and  looked  at  it  again.  It  was  the  picture  of  a  very 
pretty  girl.  And  though  his  recollections  of  her 
were  not  altogether  pleasant  at  the  moment,  it  might 
be  rather  pleasant,  after  all,  to  take  her  picture  out 
and  look  at  it  again,  some  day  —  when  he  was  sev 
enty  or  eighty. 

He  turned  away  from  the  fire,  walked  over  to  the 
desk,  and  drew  out  the  bottom  drawer. 

It  stuck  a  little,  so  packed  it  was  with  those  odds 
and  ends  often  contained  in  the  bottom  drawers  of 
desks.  On  top  there  seemed  to  be  some  old  photo 
graphs.  He  did  not  pause  to  see  what  photographs 
they  were,  but  slipped  the  little  picture  in  between 
them,  and  shut  the  drawer  again. 

221 


CHAPTER  XXV 

AFTER    FORTY 

WHEN  Mrs.  Davenport,  superbly  tailored  and 
toqued,  walked  the  crowded  Avenue  of  an 
afternoon  she  wore  the  air  of  a  lady  alone  in  the 
desert;  or,  to  be  more  accurate,  of  one  playing  before 
a  large  audience  the  role  of  a  lady  alone  in  the  desert. 
It  was  her  defense  against  staring  eyes.  For  the 
height  and  carriage  of  Mrs.  Davenport  were  noth 
ing  less  than  noble,  and  the  degree  of  her  modish- 
ness  was  sufficient  to  render  her  conspicuous  even 
in  the  modish  throng  on  the  most  modish  street  of 
the  most  modish  city  in  the  world. 

Men,  strangers  to  her,  chancing  to  see  her  pass, 
became  instantly  aware  of  these  qualities;  yet  their 
awareness,  it  seemed,  was  of  the  senses  rather  than 
the  sight,  for  always  their  gaze  sought  her  face 
and  held  there,  seeming  to  ignore  all  else.  Nor  was 
it  the  mere  technical  perfection  of  her  features  that 
engrossed  observers.  A  woman's  face,  admirably 

222 


AFTER  FORTY 

modeled  but  lacking  expression,  is  like  a  room  ad 
mirably  designed  and  furnished,  but  lighted  only  by 
a  stable  lantern.  Mrs.  Davenport's  face,  however, 
sent  forth  an  unusual  radiance;  not  the  radiance  of 
youth,  but  of  youth  sustained;  not  of  dawn,  but  of 
sparkling  noon.  She  was  a  woman  as  nearly  ageless 
as  it  is  possible  to  be  —  which  is  another  way  of 
saying  she  was  probably  somewhat  older  than  she 
looked. 

Her  vividness  was  that  of  great  physical  aliveness. 
Beyond  this,  however,  a  more  subtle  intimation  ad 
dressed  itself  to  observant  and  sophisticated  per 
sons  —  a  hint  not  alone  of  present  aliveness  but,  as 
the  saying  is,  of  having  "  lived."  It  was  but  the 
faintest  suggestion,  like  that  of  a  scent  so  evanescent 
as  to  make  one  wonder  whether  one  has  actually  de 
tected  it  or  has  been  tricked  by  fancy.  Yet  its  very 
faintness  made  it  more  intriguing.  Wherefore,  as  a 
sensitive  nose  will  take  a  second  sniff  to  verify  the 
first  impression  of  a  passing  perfume,  certain  dapper 
old  Fifth  Avenue  campaigners  would  manage,  with 
out  removing  their  eyes  from  Mrs.  Davenport's  face 
as  she  went  by,  to  seem  to  look  at  her  twice  —  first 
with  admiration;  then  searchingly,  as  though  the 
initial  glance  had  revealed  something  unexpected 

223 


AFTER  THIRTY 

just  below  the  surface,  arousing  sudden,  eager  curi 
osity  or  even  a  faint,  fantastic,  wistful,  visionary 
kind  of  hopefulness. 

The  eyes  of  men  touched  her  always  with  benevo 
lence,  but  the  eyes  of  women  were  hard.  Thus 
though  saleswomen  in  fashionable  shops  intensely 
admired  her,  their  gaze,  following  her,  expressed 
the  mingled  awe  and  hatred  one  sees  in  the  faces  of 
old  captive  lions  when  they  watch  their  trainer  en 
tering  the  cage.  Nor  did  women  ever  look  at  her 
face  only.  The  eyes  of  all  of  them  ran  over  her 
from  head  to  foot,  coldly,  swiftly,  suspiciously,  like 
the  hard  hands  of  a  detective  searching  a  doubtful 
character  for  concealed  weapons. 

And  weapons  were  unquestionably  there.  But  it 
should  be  said,  in  justice,  that  of  Mrs.  Davenport's 
weapons  the  most  deadly  were  not  of  her  own  de 
liberate  acquirement,  nor  even  deliberately  used  by 
her,  but  had,  so  to  speak,  been  slipped  into  her 
pockets  by  the  hand  of  Nature.  And  Nature  is 
never  so  prodigal  as  when  the  fancy  strikes  her  to 
arm  a  female  in  the  way  that  Mrs.  Davenport  was 
armed. 

Thus  of  some  of  her  weapons  she  herself  was 
actually  unaware.  One  of  these  was  a  faculty, 

224 


AFTER  FORTY 

quite  without  the  bounds  of  her  own  volition,  for 
setting  folk  a-dreaming.  Not  men  alone,  but  also 
women.  The  very  sight  of  her  would  do  it. 

For  instance :  Striding  along  the  street,  her  chin 
up,  her  tantalizing  bine  eyes  skimming  the  tops  of 
passing  hats,  she  would  sweep  by  a  nice  ambling 
gentleman  of  ripe  years  and  his  amiable  and  usu 
ally  placid  wife.  Whereupon,  seeing  her,  the  two 
would  embark  upon  a  pair  of  curiously  interwoven 
dreams. 

The  husband,  a  devoted  mate  long  since  past  the 
age  of  adventure,  having  received  not  so  much  as  a 
glance  from  Mrs.  Davenport,  would  nevertheless 
suddenly  find  himself  wafted  away  with  her  to  the 
deck  of  a  phantom  yacht,  large  and  sumptuous,  ply 
ing  tropical  waters  at  sunset  —  just  the  two  of  them 
alone  on  a  far-off  rosy  sea,  with  music  sounding 
faintly  and  fragrance  floating  to  them  from  an 
island  shore,  and 

And  the  wife,  knowing  herself  secure  in  the  at 
tachment  of  her  husband,  confident  of  his  "  good 
ness,"  aware  that  the  tall  magnetic  beauty  had  not 
seen  him  and  would  not  want  him  if  she  had,  not 
definitely  conscious  of  the  scandal  taking  place  in  his 
imagination,  would  nevertheless  find  herself  plunged 

225 


AFTER  THIRTY 

into  a  waking  nightmare  in  which  her  husband  was 
stolen  from  her  by  this  woman,  carried  off  bodily 
to  heaven  knew  where  or  what  — -  though,  to  be  sure, 
she  had  a  feeling  of  dim  lights,  Oriental  draperies 
and  the  sickish  smell  of  burning  incense  in  the  sur 
roundings  to  which  her  dream  consigned  him  — 
while  she  was  left  to  finish  out  her  life,  deserted 
and  alone,  in  a  flat  consisting  of  seven  rooms  and 
three  baths,  in  West  Ninety-sixth  Street. 

These  vivid  episodes  would  be  enacted  independ 
ently  in  their  minds  as  swiftly  as  life  is  said  to 
pass  in  review  through  that  of  a  man  drowning. 
And  if  the  husband  should  emerge  from  his  iri 
descent  intrigue  in  time  to  remark  to  his  spouse: 
"  That  was  a  stunning  woman  —  the  tall  one  that 
just  passed,"  thus  more  or  less  confirming  her  ter 
rible  dream-suspicions,  he  might  be  startled  at  the 
vehement  indignation  of  his  wife's  reply,  the  savage- 
ness  of  her  attack  upon  the  fair  unknown  —  a 
woman  who,  he  felt,  was  of  noble  character  for  all 
that,  being  human,  she  might  yield  to  the  call  of  a 
great  love.  He  would  think  privately  that  his  wife 
had  been  unjust  to  the  splendid  creature,  and  would 
forthwith  wander  off  into  unuttered  masculine 
thoughts  upon  the  inherent  unfairness  of  woman  to 

226 


AFTER  FORTY 

woman,  the  inherent  suspicion  and  dislike  of  wives 
for  the  more  fascinating  members  of  their  own  sex; 
and  he  would  say  to  himself :  "  I  had  thought  Mary 
was  past  that  sort  of  nonsense !  "  And  it  would 
never  occur  to  him  to  marvel,  instead,  at  the  acute- 
ness  of  wifely  instinct;  at  the  miracle  by  which  in  a 
flash  Mary  had  detected  him  in  his  tropical  liaison, 
detected  him  as  surely  as  though  she  had  followed 
the  guilty  pair  in  an  airplane,  hovered  above  the 
phantom  yacht,  and  watched  her  husband  with  the 
hussy ! 

It  must  by  no  means  be  supposed  that  Mrs.  Dav 
enport  was  invariably  alone,  or  that  she  invariably 
walked,  or  that  she  spent  all  her  time  upon  Fifth 
Avenue.  When  she  was  accompanied,  her  com 
panion  was  usually  a  male  of  the  type  possessing 
tan  spats,  a  bontonnidre  and  a  Malacca  cane.  One 
never  noticed  more  than  that  about  him;  to  walk 
with  Mrs.  Davenport  was  to  practice  a  form  of  self- 
concealment.  Sometimes  she  drove  in  her  very 
smartly  turned  out  little  town  car.  Also  she  led  the 
social  life  one  might  have  expected  a  woman  pos 
sessing  a  car  like  hers  to  lead  —  lunching  with  peo 
ple,  playing  bridge  with  people,  having  tea  with 
people,  dining  with  people,  going  to  the  theater  and 


AFTER  THIRTY 

the  opera  with  people,  and  faring  forth  with  people 
to  sup  and  dance,  by  way  of  finishing  the  day. 

And  nothing  about  her  charmed  men  and  an 
noyed  women  more  than  the  way  she  sustained  the 
life  of  the  gay  treadmill.  She  was  as  fresh  and 
sparkling  at  two  in  the  morning  as  at  two  in  the  aft 
ernoon.  Nor,  in  the  eyes  of  other  women,  was 
there  any  justice  in  it.  She  paid  not  the  least  atten 
tion  to  her  diet;  she  would  drink  champagne,  eat 
Welsh  rabbit,  finish  with  black  coffee  and  cigarettes, 
and  —  as  she  herself  said,  and  everything  about  her 
indicated  —  go  home  and  sleep  like  a  baby.  Men 
were  given  to  speaking  in  glowing  terms  of  her  con 
stitution  or  her  physique,  but  women  were  more 
direct.  "  She  's  as  strong  as  a  horse !  "  they  would 
comment  bitterly. 

Being  such  a  woman,  and  going,  as  they  say, 
"  everywhere,"  Mrs.  Davenport  was  naturally 
known  by  sight  to  many  persons  unknown  by  sight 
to  her.  She  was  recognized  by  strangers  somewhat 
as  celebrated  politicians  or  popular  theatrical  stars 
are  recognized.  But  with  this  difference :  That  she 
was  a  familiar  figure  to  quantities  of  persons  who 
had  no  idea  who  she  might  be,  and  who  knew  her 
only  by  some  such  designation  as  "  that  wonderful 

228 


AFTER  FORTY 

creature  "  or  "  that  stunning  woman  we  saw  the 
other  night  at  the  Ritz." 

Shelley  Wickett  was  one  of  those  who,  having  no 
clew  to  her  identity,  was  yet  accustomed  to  feel  a 
slight  agreeable  shock  whenever  he  caught  sight  of 
her. 

"  Ah !  There  she  is  again  —  bless  her  heart !  "  he 
would  inwardly  exclaim. 

Passing  her  as  he  walked  up  the  Avenue  at  twi 
light  on  the  day  following  that  on  which  he  had 
reached  the  distressing  and  supposedly  subdued  age 
of  forty  years,  he  was  pleased  to  discover  that  his 
keen  appreciation  of  this  unknown  lady  had  not  less 
ened.  She  still  gave  him  that  pleasant  little  start. 
That,  though  he  had  observed  of  late  with  a  sort  of 
sad  complacency  that  he  was  becoming  a  better  hus 
band  —  that  his  susceptibility  to  feminine  attrac 
tion,  and  his  enterprisingness  in  cooperating  with  it, 
were  dropping  away  from  him  like  withered  leaves 
from  an  autumnal  tree. 

Essentially,  he  told  himself,  he  was  glad  of  this ; 
for  he  aspired  to  be  worthy  —  or  as  nearly  as  pos 
sible  worthy  —  of  such  a  wife  as  Molly.  Time 
only  served  to  deepen  his  profound  sense  of  the  won- 

229 


AFTER  THIRTY 

ders  of  her.  From  the  very  depths  of  his  being  he 
adored  her.  She  and  she  alone  it  was  who  occupied 
the  sacred  inner  chamber  of  his  heart.  He  had  al 
ways  more  or  less  deplored  the  fact  that  his  heart 
was  one  of  those  possessing  innumerable  anterooms 
—  sentimental  vestibules  —  and  that  these  from 
time  to  time  had  harbored  temporary  guests. 

They  always  entered  pleasantly,  these  passing  oc 
cupants,  each  new  arrival  paying,  as  it  were,  rent  in 
advance,  by  giving  him  a  thrill.  And  a  thrill,  he 
still  to  some  extent  believed,  was  coinage  not  to  be 
despised.  It  is  of  that  which  follows  the  first  pay 
ments  in  this  coinage  that  the  landlord  of  a  heart 
grows  weary  as  the  years  pass  by.  For  it  is  always 
the  same  story:  More  rent  falls  due;  the  tenant  of 
the  sentimental  vestibule  can  furnish  no  more  thrills ; 
wherefore  it  becomes  the  difficult  and  disagreeable 
task  of  the  landlord  to  dispossess  her  —  a  miserable 
business,  always. 

It  is  because  of  these  things  that  the  proprietor 
of  many  a  male  heart,  nearing  middle  life,  retires 
from  the  business  of  accommodating  transient 
guests  and  thereafter  devotes  himself  exclusively  to 
that  of  remodeling  the  somewhat  battered  structure 
into  a  fit  abode  for  the  one  admirable,  the  one  perma- 

230 


AFTER  FORTY 

nent,  the  one  truly  treasured  tenant  who  has  ever 
occupied  it. 

Yet  even  when  this  time  arrives  —  or  when  the 
landlord  of  the  heart  believes  it  has  arrived  —  he 
may  gather  a  certain  melancholy  pleasure  from  the 
sight  of  a  new  and  charming  face  at  the  door,  re 
minding  him  of  the  old  tempestuous  days  when 
business  was  brisk.  For  retrospection  is  the  solace 
of  retirement.  And  there  is  double  satisfaction  in  a 
wistful  glance  over  the  shoulder  at  that  redoubtable 
siren,  The  Past,  when  such  a  glance  is  immediately 
followed  by  the  virtuous  renunciatory  thought: 
"  But  no !  I  am  beyond  that  sort  of  thing.  My  life 
is  now  an  open  book." 

Not  many  hours  after  he  had  encountered  her  on 
Fifth  Avenue  it  chanced  that  Wickett  felt  again,  and 
more  acutely,  the  pleasant  shock  of  seeing  —  nay, 
visioning  —  the  splendid  lady.  And  this  time  she 
was  frankly  to  be  looked  at ;  was  indeed  there  for  the 
sole  purpose  of  being  looked  at;  for  she  appeared  as 
Diana  in  the  fashionable  Tableaux  de  Printemps 
given  expensively,  for  charity,  in  the  grand  ballroom 
of  an  extravagant  hotel. 

When  the  curtains  parted  on  Diana,  goddesslike 
231 


AFTER  THIRTY 

indeed,  brave-posed  in  airy  draperies  with  bow  and 
arrow,  Wickett  seized  eagerly  upon  the  opera  glasses 
hitherto  vainly  proffered  by  his  wife,  and  gazed 
through  them  until,  after  a  splendid  minute,  the 
curtains  fell  again.  Then  hastily  returning  the 
glasses  to  Molly's  lap  he  took  up  his  program,  in 
tending  to  identify  Diana. 

"  Her  name  is  Mrs.  Davenport,"  elucidated  his 
wife,  on  whom  these  manifestations  were  not  lost. 

"  I  Ve  often  seen  her.  Do  you  know  who  she 
is?" 

"  A  friend  of  the  Klingmans,  I  believe." 

"  M-m,"  he  muttered  vaguely.  More  than  once 
he  had  spoken  to  his  wife  of  a  lack  of  discrimination 
shown  by  the  Klingmans  in  selecting  friends.  Then 
he  asked :  "  Is  there  a  Mr.  Davenport?  " 

"  I  Ve  heard  there  is  —  a  convenient  Mr.  Daven 
port  who  lives  on  the  Riviera,  writes  checks,  goes  his 
way  and  lets  her  go  hers." 

"  The  more  fool  he,"  said  Wickett. 

"  To  have  married  a  woman  of  that  type,  you 
mean  ?  " 

Her  lack  of  perception  astonished  him. 

"  Certainly  not !  "  he  replied.  "  I  mean  ever  to 
let  *uch  a  wonderful  creature  out  of  his  sight." 

232 


AFTER  FORTY 

During  the  dancing  following  the  tableaux  he 
shook  hands  genially  with  Charlie  Klingman,  who 
chanced  to  be  crossing  the  floor  with  Mrs.  Daven 
port  —  now  in  the  somewhat  more  ample  draperies 
of  a  modern  pagan  goddess.  He  was  presented,  and 
danced  with  her.  For  a  woman  so  statuesque  she 
was  amazingly  light  of  movement.  He  spoke 
frankly  of  her  beauty  —  one  may  speak  thus  to  a 
lady  just  out  of  a  gold  frame  —  and  remarked  that 
he  had  seen  her  on  the  Avenue  that  afternoon,  and 
other  afternoons. 

"  I  like  those  little  hats  you  wear,"  he  said. 
"  Toques,  don't  you  call  them  ?  " 

"  Yes,  toques,"  she  assented.  Then  with  a  be 
witching  little  smile :  "  I  'm  glad  you  like  them ;  for 
I  've  always  liked  your  taste  in  scarfs." 

A  direct  hit!  For  an  instant  he  wondered 
whether  by  any  chance  Diana  could  have  loosed  at 
random  the  shaft  that  struck  his  scarfs.  But  no! 
That  was  impossible.  She  could  never  have  guessed 
that  scarfs  were  a  hobby  with  him  —  that  he  pos 
sessed  a  collection  of  a  hundred  or  two,  with  a 
special  rack  to  hold  them.  No,  beyond  a  doubt  she 
had  noticed  him!  Those  tantalizing  eyes  of  hers 
saw  more  than  they  seemed  to  on  the  Avenue. 

233 


AFTER  THIRTY 

"  My  scarfs,"  he  returned,  immensely  stimulated, 
"  would  much  like  to  turn  and  walk  beside  your 
toques.  They  've  always  wanted  to." 

"  They  must  do  it,  then.  You  're  fond  of  walk- 
ing?" 

"  Very.     I  need  n't  ask  about  you." 

"  Yes,  I  like  to  walk.  And  it 's  lucky  for  me  just 
now  that  I  do." 

"  Lucky  for  the  rest  of  us!  " 

She  thanked  him  with  her  eyes. 

"  No  —  lucky  for  me.  My  car  is  being  over 
hauled." 

"  The  dark-bhie  brougham  with  the  red  wheels  ?  " 

"  The  same.     So  you  remember  it  too  ?  " 

"  Naturally.     And  to-night  you " 

"  Yes,  in  a  taxi  —  a  rattly  one." 

"  Not  alone,  surely?  " 

"  Yes ;  for  one  reason  or  another  my  friends 
were " 

"  And  when  you  go  — — "  he  broke  in  eagerly. 

"  I  expect  to  go  as  I  came." 

"Not  if  I  can  prevent  it!"  he  declared.  "My 
wife  and  I  will  consider  it  a  privilege  to  be  allowed 
to  drive  you  home." 

He  escorted  her  across  the  floor  and  presented  her 
234 


AFTER  FORTY 

to  Molly,  saying :  "  I  know  you  '11  be  happy  to  hear 
that  we  are  to  have  the  pleasure  of  driving  Mrs. 
Davenport  home,  dear." 

Molly  was  gracious.  He  could  always  count  on 
her  for  that.  And  she  continued  to  be  gracious  as, 
later,  they  drove  from  the  hotel  to  Mrs.  Davenport's 
house.  But  then,  as  she  herself  reflected,  it  was 
very  easy  to  appear  gracious  on  that  drive;  she  had 
only  to  put  in  an  occasional  word  by  way  of  seem 
ing  to  take  part  in  the  conversation.  That  was  con 
venient,  for  she  did  not  feel  like  talking.  Chiefly 
she  listened;  and  listening  she  envied  Mrs.  Daven 
port  the  vitality  that  enabled  her  not  only  to  be 
vivacious  at  this  hour  of  the  morning  but  to  rouse 
vivacity  in  another.  Shelley,  who  would  normally 
have  been  tired  by  now,  was  all  on  the  alert;  con 
versation  flew  back  and  forth  between  the  pair  with 
all  the  flash  and  crackle  of  wireless  between  two 
eager  operators. 

When  having  escorted  Mrs.  Davenport  across  the 
sidewalk  and  bowed  his  last  good  nights  in  the  door 
way,  Shelley  resumed  his  place  in  the  limousine,  he 
was  bubbling  with  enthusiasm. 

"  What  a  charming  woman !  "  he  exclaimed. 

"  Of  course  she  has  n't  any  cares,"  said  Molly. 

235 


AFTER  THIRTY 

"  And  what  a  figure !  " 

"  Yes,"  she  returned  dryly ;  "  one  was  n't  left  in 
any  doubt  about  that." 

He  protested:  "Why,  Molly!  It  was  just  like 
looking  at  a  painting.  The  scenery,  and  the  lights, 
and  the  gold  frame,  and  the  gauze  over  the  front  of 
it.  And  besides,  it  was  for  charity." 

"  Making  a  bow  and  arrow  and  half  a  yard  of 
cheesecloth  quite  sufficient?  " 

"  It  was  n't  cheesecloth !  "  he  denied  indignantly. 

"  How  do  you  know  ?  " 

"  She  told  me  it  was  silk  chiffon." 

"Told  you?" 

"  Yes.     I  asked  her." 

"  You  asked  her?  " 

"  Yes.  I  asked  because  it  was  such  pretty  stuff 
—  so  light  and  shimmery  and  lovely  in  its  blend  of 
colors.  I  should  think  anybody  'd  be  interested  to 
know  what  it  was." 

"  Anybody  might  be  interested  to  know  exactly 
how  much  of  it  there  was,"  she  replied  with  un 
wonted  irony. 

"  Well,  for  my  part,"  he  insisted,  "  I  think,  as  I 
said  before,  that  there  was  plenty.  You  could  n't 
very  well  expect  Diana  to  be  bundled  up  like  an 

236 


AFTER  FORTY 

Eskimo !  There  'd  be  no  sense  in  having  a  tableau 
of  Diana  at  all  if  it  had  to  be  like  that.  Mrs.  Daven 
port  was  picked  for  the  part  by  a  committee  of  prom 
inent  artists." 

"  Did  she  tell  you  that  too  ?  " 

"  It  said  so  on  the  program,"  he  answered  with 
cold  dignity.  "  Be  fair,  Molly.  Do  you  deny  that 
she  made  a  wonderful  Diana?  " 

"  Oh,  no,"  she  said.     "  Diana  was  a  huntress." 

To  that  he  did  not  reply.  It  was  unlike  Molly  to 
say  sarcastic  things  about  another  woman. 

"  Poor  dear!  "  he  thought  to  himself.  "  We  Ve 
been  going  out  too  much.  She  's  all  worn  out." 


237 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

INSTINCT 

IT  was  Shelley  Wickett's  daily  habit  to  leave  his 
office  between  four  and  five  o'clock,  ride  uptown 
in  the  elevated  railway  to  Forty-second  Street,  stop 
in  for  half  an  hour  at  his  favorite  club,  and  then 
walk  home  by  way  of  Fifth  Avenue,  to  dinner. 
Dinner  was  at  seven-thirty,  but  he  usually  reached 
home  by  seven;  for  quite  aside  from  the  fact  that 
New  York  has  lately  become  as  dirty  as  a  Middle- 
Western  manufacturing  city,  he  had  theories  on  the 
subject  of  dressing  for  dinner,  considering  the  prac 
tice  beneficial  to  the  domestic  morale,  much  as  regu 
lar  morning  shaving,  even  under  battle  conditions, 
is  considered  good  for  the  morale  of  troops. 

Now  the  disadvantage  of  a  good  habit  of  long 
standing  is  that  it  rouses  expectations  of  invariable 
performance,  and  that  consequently  the  slightest 
variation  becomes  conspicuous.  So  it  was  when, 
following  the  tableaux,  Molly,  habitually  gentle,  gen- 

238 


INSTINCT 

erous  and  patient,  allowed  herself  the  luxury  of  sar 
casm  at  the  expense  of  Mrs.  Davenport;  and  so  it 
was  now,  a  few  days  after,  when  contrary  to  estab 
lished  precedent,  Shelley  came  home  late  for  dinner. 

Molly  met  him  in  the  hall. 

"  I  was  beginning  to  worry  about  you,  dear,"  she 
said.  "  It 's  quarter  of  eight." 

H£  looked  at  his  watch. 

"  Oh,  no,"  he  answered.  "  The  clock 's  fast. 
It 's  only  twenty  minutes  of  eight ;  nineteen,  to  be 
exact.  I  won't  dress  to-night.  You  go  in  and  start 
dinner.  I  '11  join  you  in  a  moment." 

Having  hung  his  overcoat  and  hat  in  the  hall 
closet  he  was  moving  toward  his  room. 

"  What  delayed  you  ?  "  she  asked  as  he  came  to 
table. 

"  I  was  about  to  tell  you.  I  ran  into  Mrs.  Daven 
port  this  afternoon.  We  took  a  walk." 

"  You  've  been  walking  all  this  time?  " 

"  No ;  I  asked  her  to  stop  in  for  tea  at  the  Plaza 
and " 

"  That 's  an  odd  coincidence.  I  had  tea  there  to 
day.  Where  did  you  sit?  " 

"  I  was  just  going  to  say  —  we  did  n't  go  there 
after  all.  She  was  expecting  some  people  at  her 

239 


AFTER  THIRTY 

house,  so  I  went  home  with  her.  She  seemed  to 
want  me  to  meet  them." 

"Who  were  they?" 

"  I  don't  know.  They  did  n't  show  up.  She 
kept  expecting  them  every  minute  and  urging  me  to 
wait." 

"  I  see,"  said  Molly. 

"  By  the  way,"  he  said  quickly,  "  Mrs.  Daven 
port  was  greatly  taken  with  you." 

"  Indeed  ?     I  don't  see Why,  I  only  met 

her  that  evening  after  the  tableaux.  I  did  n't  speak 
fifteen  words  while  she  was  with  us.  What  about 
me  did  she  find  to  like?  " 

"  Oh,  she  spoke  of  your  poise,  and  all  that.  I 
remember  she  said :  '  What  a  sweet  little  woman 
your  wife  seems  to  be.  I  do  want  to  know  her  bet 
ter.'  " 

"  And  I  'm  supposed  to  be  flattered  at  that? " 

"  I  don't  see  why  not." 

"Am  I  a  'little'  woman?" 

"  No ;  not  literally  of  course.  '  Little,'  as  she  used 
it,  is  a  term  of  —  of  affection,  almost" 

"  Not  from  woman  to  woman,"  Molly  said.  "  It 
implies  superiority  —  or  even  mild  pity." 

"Nonsense!" 

240 


INSTINCT 

"  Take  away  the  word  '  little  '  and  see  for  your 
self.  Is  a  '  good  woman  '  the  same  as  a  '  good  little 
woman  '  ?  No.  A  '  good  little  woman  '  is  a  fool. 
A  '  pretty  woman '  may  have  some  dignity  about 
her,  but  a  '  pretty  little  woman '  is  a  doll.  And  a 
'  sweet  little  woman  '  is  a  well-intentioned  nobody  — 
with  an  attractive  husband." 

"  I  don't  see  it  at  all !  "  he  said  irritably. 

"  Shelley,"  she  said,  "  I  fear  you  are  becoming  an 
obtuse  little  man." 

This  prelude  made  it  the  more  difficult  for  him  to 
broach,  as  though  casually,  the  topic  to  which  he  had 
intended  to  lead  up. 

"  She  was  certainly  very  much  taken  with  you," 
he  persevered.  "  Did  n't  she  say  she  wanted  to 
know  you  better?  More  than  that,  she's  going  to 
ask  the  Klingmans  to  invite  us  to  a  birthday  party 
they  're  giving  for  her  next  week  —  dinner  and  the 
theater." 

"  I  don't  want  to  go." 

"You  don't?     Why  not?" 

"  Don't  you  think  the  Klingmans  lack  discrimi 
nation  in  the  selection  of  their  friends?  " 

"  Molly,"  he  replied  with  great  solemnity,  "  I  'm 
afraid  we  have  been  unjust  to  the  Klingmans.  To 

241 


AFTER  THIRTY 

be  sure,  Charlie  Klingman  is  a  little  bit  on  the  rough 
diamond  order,  and  Mabel  Klingman  becomes  a 
trifle  loud  now  and  then.  But  Mrs.  Davenport  tells 
me  that  down  underneath  they  're  really  very  fine." 

"  Possibly  they  are,"  she  conceded. 

"  In  judging  others,"  he  went  on  eagerly,  "  we 
ought  to  try  to  look  below  the  surface  —  don't  you, 
think  so?" 

"  Oh,  yes." 

"  That 's  one  thing  I  admire  about  you,"  he  ex 
claimed,  brightening  visibly.  "  You  always  try  to 
be  fair."  And  after  the  briefest  pause  he  added: 
"  Then  I  assume  it  'a  all  right  about  our  going  to  the 
Klingmans'  party  ?  " 

She  gave  him  a  surprised  look. 

"  I  can't  see  that  that  situation  is  changed  in  any 
way,"  she  replied. 

"  Why,"  he  answered,  disconcerted,  "  did  n't  you 
just  admit  that  we  ought  to  be  generous  to  people?  " 

"  Yes ;  and  it  '3  always  easier  to  be  generous 
to  people  of  that  sort  if  you  keep  away  from 
them." 

"  The  fact  is,"  he  declared  ruefully,  "  it 's  going  to 
be  frightfully  awkward  for  me  if  you  won't  go.  I 
told  Mrs.  Davenport  we  'd  accept.  I  never  dreamed 

242 


INSTINCT 

you  'd  mind.  And  really  I  can't  see  yet  why  you 
do." 

"  Call  it  instinct  if  you  like." 

"  How  do  you  mean?  " 

"  Well,  for  one  thing  instinct  tells  me  I  probably 
would  n't  like  the  play  they  'd  select  —  it  might  even 
be  the  Winter  Garden.  Anyhow  they  don't  want 
me  —  it 's  you  they  want.  Why  don't  you  just  go, 
and  let  me  stay  home  in  peace?  " 

Here  was  a  new  idea;  he  found  the  very  contem 
plation  of  it  thrilling. 

"  Why,  that 's  perfectly  absurd !  "  he  said.  "  Of 
course  I  won't  go  without  you." 

"Why  not?" 

"  Oh,  well  —  it 's  ridiculous."  Then  after  a  mo 
ment's  rumination  he  added :  "  Still  it  is  an  awk 
ward  situation.  As  a  matter  of  fact  I  have  agreed 
to  go,  and  if  you  don't  want  to  go  with  me,  I  sup 
pose  the  only  way  out  of  it  is  for  me  to  go  alone. 
Only  I  certainly  won't  do  it  on  the  basis  of  their  not 
wanting  you  —  because  they  do.  On  the  other 
hand,  though,  as  you  really  don't  want  to  go  it  does 
seem  rather  senseless  to  —  to  drag  you  —  does  n't 
it  ?  Yes  —  I  could  go  alone." 

He  had  already  begun  to  congratulate  himself 

243 


AFTER  THIRTY 

upon  this  convenient  adjustment  when  she  spoke 
again. 

"  Of  course,"  she  said,  "  we  must  think  how  it  will 
look  to  them  if  you  go  without  me." 

"  Oh,  that 's  all  right !  "  he  reassured  her. 

"  I  would  n't  want  them  to  get  the  idea  that  we 
are  like  Mrs.  Davenport  and  her  husband." 

He  winced  slightly,  but  thought  best  to  pass  over 
the  allusion. 

"  On  the  whole,"  Molly  went  on,  "  I  'd  better  go. 
I  '11  mind  going,  but  I  should  mind  not  going  still 
more." 

"But  why?"  he  protested.  "Why  go  if 
you " 

"  Instinct,"  she  put  in. 

Instinct!  As  though  that  explained  anything  at 
all!  Never  before,  so  far  as  he  remembered,  had 
she  given  such  a  silly,  womanish  reason.  It 
sounded  positively  temperamental.  And  if  there 
was  one  thing  more  than  another  for  which  he  had 
always  given  her  credit  it  was  her  freedom  from 
that  sort  of  foolishness. 

"  Molly,"  he  said,  shaking  his  head  solemnly, 
"  for  mercy's  sake  don't  begin  being  irrational  at 
this  stage  of  the  game !  It  worries  me  to  hear  you 

244 


INSTINCT 

talking  about  *  instinct.'  Where  on  earth  did  you 
suddenly  get  all  this  instinct  anyhow?  It  seems  to 
be  something  entirely  new." 

"  New  ?  "  she  repeated,  smiling.     "  Not  at  all.     I 
got  it  long  ago  —  when  I  was  born  a  woman." 


245 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

A    BIRTHDAY    AND    REBELLION 

THE  dinner  given  by  the  Klingmans  in  celebra 
tion  of  Mrs.  Davenport's  birthday  —  precise 
anniversary  not  specified  —  occurred  in  a  fashionable 
restaurant.  A  table  for  eighteen  was  placed  at  the 
center  of  the  large  dining  room,  and  the  progress 
of  the  party  from  the  foyer,  where  they  gathered,  to 
the  flower-banked  board,  was  as;  conspicuous  as 
might  be. 

Molly  found  herself  assigned  for  the  evening  to  a 
tall,  handsome,  middle-aged  man  who  looked  as 
though  he  had  been  especially  turned  out  for  the 
occasion  by  a  flock  of  tailors,  haberdashers,  barbers 
and  manicures.  He  made  her  think  somehow  of  an 
exceedingly  lifelike  dummy  on  whom  a  group  of 
earnest  window  dressers  had  worked  up  to  the  last 
moment. 

But  unlike  a  dummy  he  could  talk.  Molly  soon 
discovered  that  he  liked  to  discuss  food,  drink  and 

246 


A  BIRTHDAY  AND  REBELLION 

the  theater.  She  asked  his  views  on  prohibition. 
That  set  him  off,  and  thereafter  he  ran  on,  not  only 
through  dinner  but  through  the  musical  comedy  to 
which  they  subsequently  went  —  arriving  splendidly, 
just  before  the  end  of  the  first  act.  The  show  bore 
the  title  "  Bad  Baby !  "  The  plot  depended  upon 
very  persistent  mistaken  identity;  there  were  many 
pretty  girls,  and  a  comedian  who  talked  intimately 
to  the  audience  about  his  salary  and  his  troubles  with 
his  automobile  and  his  wife. 

As  Molly  had  expected,  Shelley  was  placed  at  Mrs. 
Davenport's  side,  not  only  at  dinner  and  the  theater, 
but  also  later  when  they  all  went  to  the  Lunar 
Glades,  the  popular  night  resort  of  the  season. 
Here,  in  a  large,  crowded,  noisy  ballroom,  fran 
tically  decorated  but  agreeably  lighted,  they  sat  at 
the  margin  of  the  dancing  floor,  at  small  round 
tables  jammed  so  close  together  that  the  spidery 
waiters,  and  the  dancers  going  to  and  from  their 
seats  at  the  rear,  could  barely  squeeze  between,  on 
the  side  away  from  the  champagne  buckets. 

Most  of  the  Klingmans'  party  danced,  but  Molly 
was  relieved  to  learn  that  her  escort  preferred,  as 
she  did,  to  sit  and  watch  the  crowd.  Having  talked 
to  her  continuously,  he  regarded  her  as  an  unusually 

247 


AFTER  THIRTY 

interesting  conversationalist,  and  now  even  against 
the  crashing  syncopations  of  the  jazz  band  he  con 
tinued  to  talk,  while  she  kept  him  happy  by  looking 
brightly  at  him  every  now  and  then  as  though  she 
heard  what  he  was  saying. 

Soon  after  they  reached  the  Lunar  Glades,  Shelley 
came  from  his  table  and  like  a  dutiful  husband  asked 
her  to  dance ;  she  thanked  him  and  declined.  As  the 
long  evening  wore  on  he  came  back  every  now  and 
then  to  ask  if  she  was  tired,  but  she  invariably  re 
assured  him.  Having  come  she  was  resolved  not 
to  be  a  spoil-sport. 

Frequently,  amid  the  whirling  heterogeneous  pack 
upon  the  dancing  floor,  she  caught  sight  of  her  hus 
band.  He  danced  often  with  Mrs.  Davenport,  and 
twice,  as  she  glimpsed  them,  she  noticed  that  the 
lady's  head  was  thrown  far  back,  that  she  might  look 
directly  into  Shelley's  face.  Dancing  or  seated  they 
talked  vivaciously.  Molly  tried  to  construct  an  im 
aginary  conversation  for  them  —  then  quickly  re 
jected  the  imagining.  Why  should  she  have  fancied 
them  as  talking  in  that  way?  Was  it  perhaps  be 
cause  of  the  curiously  confidential  manner  they  had 
with  each  other ;  because  of  the  expression  of  their 
eyes  as  they  exchanged  glances?  Why  was  it  that 

248 


A  BIRTHDAY  AND  REBELLION 

a  stranger,  seeing  them,  might  think  they  knew  each 
other  a  great  deal  better  than  they  actually  did  ?  A 
stranger  would  think  that!  But  why? 

Her  question  was  answered  for  her  by  a  little 
episode  she  witnessed.  While  Mrs.  Davenport  hap 
pened  to  be  speaking  for  a  moment  to  Charlie  Kling- 
man,  who  sat  at  the  other  side  of  her  from  Shelley, 
Molly  saw  her  husband  draw  a  cigarette  from  his 
case  —  the  case  which  had  mysteriously  appeared 
one  Christmas  during  the  progress  of  the  affair  with 
Mrs.  Brundage  —  and  look  about  for  the  matches. 
The  match  stand,  as  it  happened,  was  on  the  next 
table,  out  of  his  reach  but  within  easy  reach  of  Mrs. 
Davenport.  Instead  of  attracting  her  attention  by 
speaking,  Shelley  touched  her  hand.  She  turned  to 
him  quickly,  with  that  look  of  eager  aliveness  in 
her  face.  He  showed  the  unlighted  cigarette  and 
indicated  the  matches  with  an  inclination  of  the 
head. 

To  be  sure,  the  jazz  band  was  in  action  at  the  time, 
making  dumb-show  more  practical  than  words  as  a 
means  of  communication  ;  but  even  as  on  that  ground 
Molly  was  extenuating  the  slight  familiarity  she  had 
witnessed,  the  little  scene  between  the  two  went  on. 
Mrs.  Davenport  did  not  pass  the  stand  to  Shelley, 

249 


AFTER  THIRTY 

but  reached  out  a  white  arm,  took  a  match,  struck  it, 
and  offered  him  the  light.  He  leaned  to  her,  and 
she,  inclining  herself  sidewise,  allowed  her  shoulder 
to  rest  against  his  while  the  cigarette  was  being 
lighted.  Over  the  flame  of  the  match  she  saw  them 
looking  into  each  other's  eyes. 

At  about  two  in  the  morning,  when  the  last  check 
had  been  paid  and  there  was  no  more  profit  in  keep 
ing  open,  the  management  of  the  Lunar  Glades  be 
gan  to  indicate,  by  shutting  down  lights  and  open 
ing  windows  to  the  chill  of  the  outer  night,  a  wish 
that  patrons  wrould  depart.  There  was  nothing  for 
it  but  to  go. 

Alone  in  the  limousine  with  her  husband  Molly 
relaxed  with  a  sigh  against  the  cushions.  They 
rode  for  a  time  thinking  their  separate  thoughts. 
Presently  Shelley  said  reflectively :  "  Likes  and 
dislikes  are  curious  things,  are  n't  they  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Don't  you  begin  to  see  how  attractive  Mrs.  Dav 
enport  is  ?  " 

"  To  men,"  she  said. 

He  turned  upon  her  sharply. 

"  I  ought  to  tell  you,"  he  declared,  "  that  in  my 
250 


A  BIRTHDAY  AND  REBELLION 

opinion  your  attitude  toward  Mrs.  Davenport  has 
from  the  first  been  most  peculiar!  May  I  ask  if 
you  know  anything  to  her  discredit?  Have  you 
something  definitely  against  her  that  I  don't  know 
about?" 

"  You  don't  seem  to  know  about  it." 

"  Can  you  give  me  any  good  reason  for  dislik 
ing  her  ?  " 

"  Yes.     She  's  so  obvious." 

"Obvious?"  he  repeated,  aghast.  Of  all  con 
ceivable  terms  this  was  the  last  he  could  imagine  as 
applicable  to  Mrs.  Davenport. 

"  Yes.  As  obvious  as  —  as  a  big  liner  coming 
up  the  river  all  covered  with  flags,  and  the  band 
playing,  and  the  whistle  blowing,  and  men  rocking 
round  like  so  many  silly  little  boats  in  the  swell." 

"  Really,"  he  said  after  staring  at  her  for  a  mo 
ment,  "  I  'm  astonished  at  you !  You  've  never  been 
like  this  before." 

At  that  she  sat  up  suddenly  and  turned  to  face 
him. 

"No,  I  haven't!"  she  declared.  "And  I'm 
wondering  if  in  not  being  like  this  before  I  have  n't 
made  a  big  mistake.  All  these  years  I  've  sat  back 
and  watched  you  get  into  one  sentimental  scrape 

251 


AFTER  THIRTY 

after  another,  saying  nothing,  smiling,  and  being 
what  your  friend  Mrs.  Davenport  calls  a  '  sweet 
little  woman  ' —  having  women  pitying  me ;  or  pity 
ing  you  because  you  were  married  to  a  stupid  nonen 
tity  who  did  n't  '  understand  '  you.  And  often 
enough  it  has  ended  with  my  trying  to  pull  you  out 
of  your  scrapes  when  you  'd  got  in  too  deep  to  pull 
yourself  out.  All  these  years  I  've  done  that  be 
cause  I  thought  I  knew  your  temperament  and  be 
lieved  that  it  was  the  best  thing  to  do.  I  thought  to 
myself :  '  He  's  getting  older ;  after  a  while  he  '11  be 
surfeited  with  these  sugary,  sticky  little  affairs  of 
his.'  But  now  I  'm  wondering  if  instead  of  getting 
surfeited  you  've  not  been  getting  blunted.  That 's 
the  danger  of  such  things.  Well,  I  've  reached  the 
end  of  my  rope.  This  time  I  'm  not  going  to  wait 
until  you  're  in  a  mess  and  then  pull  you  out.  I  'm 
going  to  head  you  off  right  now!  Why,  the  very 
fact  that  you  can  fall  for  a  Mrs.  Davenport  —  the 
very  fact  that  you  can  ask  why  I  don't  like  her- 
that  you  can  upbraid  me  for  not  liking  her  —  that 
shows  what 's  been  happening  to  you!  But  if  you 
have  to  be  told  why  I  don't  like  her  I  can  tell  you, 
and  I  '11  tell  you  now ;  I  said  she  made  a  good  Diana 
in  the  tableaux,  and  she  did.  She  's  a  new  sort  of 

252 


A  BIRTHDAY  AND  REBELLION 

Diana.  She  hunts  men,  and  feeds  on  their  admira 
tion.  I  don't  pretend  to  say  where  she  stops  or 
does  n't  stop.  That  does  n't  matter.  She  's  an  ob 
vious  man-hunter.  That  is  her  one  business  in  life. 
A  wife  has  to  have  something  to  take  pride  in.  And 
if  she  has  to  put  up  with  a  philandering  husband, 
about  all  she  has  left  is  to  take  pride  in  the  kind  of 
women  he  philanders  with.  And  when  he  takes 
even  that  away  from  her 

She  left  the  sentence  unfinished. 

Wickett  was  stunned.  Never  in  his  wildest 
dreams  could  he  have  fancied  Molly's  talking  in  this 
way. 

"  Why,  dear,"  he  gasped,  "  I  don't  seem  to  know 
you  at  all  to-night !  You  've  always  been  so  —  so 
generous;  so  sensible,  so " 

"  Is  n't  it  time,  then,"  she  threw  back,  "  that  I 
should  be  able  to  expect  as  much  of  you?  Can't 
you  allow  me  for  once  the  luxury  of  not  being  gen 
erous  and  sensible  ?  " 

He  gazed  at  her,  dumfounded,  feeling  like  a  man 
whose  gentle  little  helpmate  has  of  a  sudden  swung 
a  blackjack  on  him.  All  his  preconceptions  of  what 
was  fitting  between  a  husband  and  a  wife,  of  what  a 
husband's  attitude  should  be,  of  the  prestige  to  which 

253 


AFTER  THIRTY 

a  husband  should  cling  as  a  monarchical  absolutist 
clings  to  the  dogma  of  divine  right,  had  been 
knocked  down  over  hie  eyes,  as  it  were,  like  a  bat 
tered  crown.  Enfeebled  as  he  was  by  the  shock,  he 
felt  dimly  that  he  must  protest.  An  emperor,  even 
when  being  "  abdicated  "  at  the  toe  of  a  Bolshevist 
boot,  must  try  to  maintain  some  last  vestige  of  his 
dignity. 

He  strove  for  a  note  of  volition  as  he  said  wanly : 
"  You  ought  to  have  told  me  something  of  this  be 
fore,  my  dear.  But  of  course  since  you  feel  that 
way  about  it  —  why,  I  '11  —  I  '11  avoid  Mrs.  Daven 
port  in  future." 

"  All  right,"  said  Molly. 

He  considered  the  remark  entirely  inadequate  to 
the  occasion,  and  would  have  liked  to  tell  her  so,  but 
after  an  instant's  thought  decided  that  the  better 
course  was  to  be  silent. 


254 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

THE    MESSAGE 

THERE  is  no  other  city  in  the  world  in  which  a 
block,  one  way  or  another,  makes  such  a  dif 
ference  as  in  the  city  of  New  York.  Statistics  tell 
us  that  the  metropolis  contains  more  than  forty 
thousand  men  and  women  who  belong  to  leading 
clubs,  and  it  is  safe  to  say  that  no  one  of  these  may 
walk  the  west  side  of  Fifth  Avenue  in  the  crowded 
hours  of  the  afternoon  without  meeting  an  acquaint 
ance  —  or  more  likely  a  number  of  acquaintances. 
On  the  east  side  of  the  Avenue,  where  the  current  is 
not  so  strong,  the  likelihood  of  such  encounters  is 
materially  reduced;  on  Madison  Avenue,  one  block 
to  the  eastward,  it  is  reduced  still  further,  becoming 
an  improbability;  while  on  Sixth  Avenue,  a  block  to 
the  west  of  Fifth,  a  person  of  the  club-member  class 
is  concealed  as  in  some  uncharted  city  in  the  heart 
of  China. 

One  could  not  expect  Shelley  Wickett  to  walk  up 

255 


AFTER  THIRTY 

Sixth  Avenue.  That  would  be  too  much  to  ask, 
for  Sixth  Avenue  roars  with  its  elevated  railroad, 
its  sidewalk  crowds  are  shabby,  it  is  flanked  by  un 
tidy  little  shops  and  beset  by  smells  from  dismal  bars 
and  restaurants. 

The  sincerity  of  Wickett's  resolution  to  avoid 
Mrs.  Davenport  was  amply  attested  by  the  fact  that 
for  several  days  following  his  talk  with  Molly  he 
walked  uptown  by  way  of  Madison  Avenue,  and 
that,  even  when  the  relative  somberness  of  that  high 
way  palled  upon  him,  he  did  not  resume  his  erst 
while  course,  but  only  ventured  back  as  far  as  Fifth 
Avenue's  eastern  shore.  Having  decided  upon  re 
nunciation  he  earnestly  desired  not  to  meet  the  lady. 
It  seemed  safer  so. 

Thus,  between  good  fortune  and  good  manage 
ment,  several  weeks  passed  without  his  seeing  her. 
Spring  advanced  —  balmy,  hazy  spring,  the  season 
he  loved  best.  But  though  one  side  of  his  nature 
still  turned  a  little  wistfully  to  vivid  seasonable 
recollections,  the  would-be  worthy  husband  in  him 
was,  upon  the  whole,  contented  as  never  before  with 
the  placid  course  of  things. 

The  fact  was  that  this  year  he  found  himself 
thinking  a  great  deal  about  golf.  All  considered  he 

256 


THE  MESSAGE 

was  glad  to  be  thinking  about  golf.  It  made  him 
feel  virtuous.  Even  a  sardonic  paraphrase  which 
he  discovered  in  the  "  funny  column  "  of  his  paper 
one  bright  Saturday  morning  disconcerted  him  only 
momentarily : 

"  In  the  spring  an  old  man's  fancy  lightly  turns  to 
thoughts  of  golf." 

Wickett  resented  the  word  "  old."  A  man 
did  n't  have  to  be  old  to  think  about  golf.  Was  n't 
he  thinking  of  it?  Yes;  and  the  more  he  thought 
the  more  he  felt  that  he  must  go  out  to  the  club  and 
play  that  very  afternoon.  Moreover,  since  fall  he 
had  n't  looked  at  his  own  summer  home,  which  ad 
joined  the  links.  Only  the  other  day  he  had  a  letter 
from  Joe,  his  caretaker,  informing  him  of  garden 
requirements,  stating  that  a  certain  patch  of  Eng 
lish  ivy  had  been  winter-killed,  and  notifying  him  of 
the  arrival  of  a  litter  of  collie  puppies.  After 
golfing  he  could  run  over  and  inspect  the  place. 

He  reached  his  office  full  of  the  thought  of  tele 
phoning  immediately  to  arrange  a  match  with  Hig- 
gins,  who,  since  Janie  had  her  second  baby,  had 
lived  out  there  the  year  round.  But  as  he  was 

257 


AFTER  THIRTY 

hanging  up  his  coat  and  hat  there  came  a  ring  on 
his  desk  telephone. 

It  was  Molly,  asking  him  to  go  shopping  with  her 
that  afternoon. 

"  What  good  will  I  be?  "  he  asked. 

"  I  've  been  looking  at  an  evening  gown,"  she  told 
him.  "  It 's  very  pretty,  but  I  'm  afraid  it  may 
be  a  little  bit  too  young  for  me.  I  'd  like  you  to  see 
it." 

"  No  dress  is  too  young  for  you,"  he  assured  her. 
"If  you  like  it,  go  ahead  and  get  it." 

"  But  I  want  you  to  like  my  clothes.  I  don't  get 
so  very  many  evening  gowns,  and  you  remember 
that  rose-colored  one  you  thought  was " 

"  It  was  all  right  after  they  put  the  piece  of  tulle 
in,"  he  said.  "  Those  are  things  men  don't  know 
about,  dear.  I  can't  decide  a  thing  like  that.  Your 
judgment  in  that  line  is  lots  better  than  mine.  Be 
sides,  I  've  had  a  letter  from  Joe.  He  wants  me  to 
come  out  and  look  over  the  place.  He  needs  a  lot 
of  things  for  the  garden,  and  some  of  the  ivy  's 
dead,  and  —  oh,  well,  there  's  no  end  of  stuff  I  've 
got  to  see  to  out  there.  I  was  planning  to  go  this 
afternoon.  Of  course  if  you  really  need  me  I  '11 

give  it  up,  but " 

258 


THE  MESSAGE 

"  Oh,  no,"  she  answered.  "  You  go  along,  dear. 
I  '11  manage  all  right." 

"  That 's  a  darling  girl !  "  he  approved  cordially. 

Then  he  rang  up  Higgins  and  arranged  for  lunch 
eon  and  a  match. 

Though  he  had  trouble  on  the  third,  ninth  and 
fifteenth  holes,  he  won  the  match  and  came  in  with 
the  comfortable  feeling  that  for  one  who  had  not 
touched  a  club  in  several  months  he  had  acquitted 
himself  well.  A  shower  and  fresh  clothing  served 
further  to  increase  his  sens^  of  well-being,  and  he 
was  in  high  spirits  as  he  left  the  clubhouse  and 
started  to  walk  down  the  drive.  There  remained 
something  more  than  an  hour  before  train  time. 
He  proposed  to  cut  across  the  links  to  his  own  do 
main,  see  Joe,  tell  him  what  to  do,  and  get  a  hack 
to  take  him  to  the  five-twelve. 

The  upper  branches  of  the  trees  scattered  over 
the  links  were  swimming  in  the  yellow-green  of 
spring.  Beyond  one  clump  he  presently  sighted  the 
roof  of  his  house.  It  was  good  to  see  the  place 
again.  He  wished  they  could  move  out  earlier  in 
the  season,  but  the  children's  school  prevented  that. 
With  every  step  the  house  came  more  into  view. 

259 


AFTER  THIRTY 

He  began  to  think  of  improvements  that  he  meant  to 
make  from  time  to  time,  and  these  thoughts  so  pre 
occupied  him  that  he  hardly  noticed  a  closed  motor 
car  which  was  standing  in  the  drive  at  a  point  near 
where  he  intended  to  leave  the  road  and  cut  across 
the  turf. 

As  he  walked  by  the  machine  he  was  vaguely 
aware  that  the  chauffeur  had  the  front  floor  boards 
out  and  was  reaching  down  within. 

Then  suddenly  he  was  startled  by  a  voice  coming 
from  behind  him,  calling :  "  Shelley !  Shelley 
Wickett!" 

It  was  the  voice  of  a  woman,  and  even  before  he 
turned  he  knew  who  the  woman  was. 

"  Is  that  the  way  you  rush  by  your  old  friends 
when  you  find  them  stalled  on  a  country  road?" 
demanded  Mrs.  Davenport  playfully  as  she  leaned 
from  the  window  of  the  little  dark-blue  landaulet. 

"  You !  "  he  exclaimed,  turning  back. 

"  Yes.     Where  are  you  off  to  in  such  a  hurry?  " 

"  My  house."     He  indicated  it  with  a  gesture. 

"  Have  you  moved  out  as  early  as  this?  " 

"  Oh,  no.  Not  till  June.  I  was  just  going  to 
look  things  over.  I  'm  returning  to  town  on  the 
five-twelve." 

260 


THE  MESSAGE 

"  No  indeed  you  're  not ! "  she  exclaimed. 
"  You  're  coming  back  to  town  with  me." 

"  I  have  a  lot  of  little  things  to  see  to,"  he  said 
doubtfully. 

"  I  '11  wait  for  you." 

"  You  're  awfully  kind.  It 's  delightful  to  see 
you  again." 

The  chauffeur  began  to  replace  the  floor  boards. 

"  All  fixed,  Wright?  "  asked  Mrs.  Davenport. 

"  Not  quite,  ma'am,"  the  man  replied ;  "  but  it 
will  do  till  I  get  back  to  the  garage.  What  the 
brake  needs  is  a  new  lining." 

She  nodded.     Then  to  Wickett :     "  Hop  in." 

He  hesitated  only  for  the  briefest  moment.  He 
had  not  forgotten  his  promise  to  Molly.  He  had 
said  that  he  would  try  to  avoid  Mrs.  Davenport,  and 
he  had  tried.  He  would  tell  Molly  all  about  it,  of 
course,  as  soon  as  he  got  home.  She  could  n't  blame 
him  for  this  chance  encounter,  surely;  and  as  for 
riding  back  to  the  city  with  Mrs.  Davenport,  short  of 
actual  rudeness  there  was  no  way  out  of  that. 

"  Never  mind  stopping  at  my  house,"  he  said,  get 
ting  into  the  machine  and  seating  himself  beside  her. 
"  I  '11  be  coming  out  another  day." 

She  looked  at  her  jeweled  wrist  watch. 
261 


AFTER  THIRTY 

"  If  you  really  don't  mind,"  she  said,  "  that  will  be 
better  for  me.  I  ought  to  be  home  at  half -past  five 
—  though  I  am  willing  to  wait  for  you  if  necessary." 

"  Oh,  it 's  quite  all  right,"  he  said. 

"  Make  the  best  time  you  can,  Wright,"  she  said 
to  the  chauffeur  as  they  started.  Then  turning 
again  to  Shelley :  "Of  course  you  know  you  ought 
to  be  shot  at  sunrise?  " 

"  For  what,  pray?  " 

"  Deserter !  "  she  said  archly. 

He  began  to  utter  a  string  of  those  excuses  known 
to  the  Manhattanese.  He  wished  to  concentrate 
upon  what  he  was  saying,  to  make  his  excuses  plaus 
ible,  but  the  rate  at  which  the  chauffeur  took  the  turn 
from  the  club  drive  into  the  highroad  rather  threw 
him  off  his  line.  Evidently  the  man  was  taking  very 
literally  Mrs.  Davenport's  request  for  haste. 

"  This  seems  to  be  a  very  lively  little  car  of 
yours,"  he  remarked.  He  did  not  feel  that  it  would 
be  polite  to  make  the  hint  more  concrete,  but  hoped 
she  might  gather  what  he  meant. 

"  Yes,"  she  replied,  as  they  began  a  swift  flight  up 
the  first  long  easy  grade,  "  but  Wright  is  a  very  safe 
driver." 

The  remark  irritated  him  slightly.  Every  one,  of 
262 


THE  MESSAGE 

course,  thinks  his  own  chauffeur  is  a  safe  driver. 
He  would  have  liked  to  tell  her  that,  but  refrained. 

For  a  time  he  sat  watching  the  flying  road,  driv 
ing,  so  to  speak,  from  the  back  seat  —  pressing  his 
feet  against  the  footrest  as  though  operating  clutch 
and  brake  pedals. 

Then,  seeing  that  she  noticed  this,  he  explained: 
"  You  see  I  drive  a  good  deal  myself.  It 's  funny 
what  driving  does  to  you.  You  get  a  technique  of 
your  own  —  certain  ways  of  getting  over  bumps, 
and  approaching  curves,  and  passing  other  cars ;  and 
you  acquire  pretty  definite  ideas  about  speed.  So 
you  're  always  criticizing  the  other  fellow's  driving 
and  thinking  just  how  you'd  have  done  this  or  that." 

She  laid  her  hand  lightly  on  his  arm,  saying: 
"  Don't  think  about  the  road.  Just  think  about  me." 

He  said  the  obvious  thing.  "  That 's  not  difficult 
to  do !  "  he  told  her. 

But  it  was  difficult,  all  the  same,  at  such  a  speed. 
No  chauffeur  had  any  right,  he  felt,  to  drive  as  fast 
as  this  upon  the  Post  Road.  There  were  too  many 
other  cars;  too  many  crossings.  Nor  was  it  only 
the  speed  that  was  making  him  uncomfortable.  In 
Mrs.  Davenport's  manner  and  tone  there  was  some 
thing  confidential  —  a  hint  almost  of  tenderness,  or 

263 


AFTER  THIRTY 

of  expected  tenderness  in  him  —  that  made  him 
anxious  to  see  the  city  lights  ahead,  impatient  to  be 
out  of  her  car  and  home  again. 

"  Will  you  stop  in  at  my  house  for  a  cup  of  tea 
before  going  home?  "  she  asked.  "  I  'd  like  a  nice 
old-fashioned  visit  with  you." 

They  had  topped  the  crest  of  a  little  rise  and  were 
now  shooting  swiftly  down  again.  A  painted  can 
vas  sign,  stretched  across  the  road  a  hundred  yards 
ahead,  informed  him  that  the  ugly  concrete  building 
on  the  right  was  the  New  Economy  Garage. 

"  You  're  awfully  kind,"  he  replied.  "  I  'd  love 
to,  but  I  can't  —  not  to-day.  You  see,  the  fact 
is " 

It  was  not  a  fact,  at  all,  that  he  was  going  to  tell 
her ;  but  whatever  it  was  that  he  had  meant  to  say, 
the  sentence  was  never  completed.  For  suddenly 
without  warning  he  saw  a  heavy  motor  truck  back 
out  of  the  garage  and  stop  directly  across  the  road 
in  front  of  them.  Seeing  them  descending  on  him, 
the  driver  made  to  get  out  of  the  way  again,  but 
evidently  stalled  his  motor.  The  truck  gave  a  little 
jump  and  stood  still.  Their  own  chauffeur  snatched 
for  the  emergency-brake  lever.  The  car  swerved 
sharply  as  the  brakes  bit  upon  the  wheels.  But  the 

264 


THE  MESSAGE 

distance  was  too  short.     They  must  inevitably  strike 
the  heavy  vehicle  with  great  force. 

"  Look  out  for  glass!  "  Shelley  shouted,  throwing 
an  arm  over  her  face  and  leaning  to  shield  her  with 
his  body.  Then  in  the  brief  electric  interval  of 
waiting  a  flood  of  thoughts  went  surging  through 
his  mind. 

That  a  collision  at  this  pace  meant  death  he  hardly 
doubted.  But,  curiously,  death  seemed  just  then  a 
matter  comparatively  unimportant.  The  important 
thing,  the  ghastly  thing,  was  that  death  should  catch 
him  in  such  a  predicament  —  such  an  undeserved 
predicament  —  giving  him  no  chance  to  explain. 
He  had  avoided  going  shopping  with  Molly.  He 
had  told  her  he  was  going  out  to  the  house.  She 
would  learn  that  he  had  not  been  there.  It  would 
appear  to  her  that  he  had  been  deliberately  deceitful ; 
that  when  he  had  refused  to  go  shopping  he  was 
already  planning  a  clandestine  meeting  with  Mrs. 
Davenport;  that  the  final  act  of  his  life  had  been  to 
lie  to  her.  It  was  outrageous!  Outrageous  that 
when  a  man  was  playing  straight,  coincidence  should 
place  him  in  an  evil  light  and  then  kill  him,  leaving 
his  memory  forever  black  in  the  eyes  of  the  gen 
tlest,  sweetest,  truest  of  wives ! 

265 


AFTER  THIRTY 

Ah !  Was  it  true  that  a  soul  leaving  a  body  could 
carry  a  message?  Then  his  soul  departing  must 
carry  a  last  word  to  Molly.  Before  going  on  its 
final  journey  it  must  seek  her  out  and  implore  her  to 
believe.  It  must  do  that !  It  must ! 

And  now  like  a  response  to  his  tortured  prayer 
he  felt  a  rending,  as  of  the  spirit  casting  off  the 
bondage  of  the  flesh ;  then  an  exquisite  sensation  of 
swift  soaring,  upward  and  away.  It  had  happened, 
then  I  His  soul  was  free.  Down  there  in  the  world, 
Somewhere,  his  body  was  lying  beside  a  road.  It 
meant  nothing  to  him.  It  was  a  worn-out  overcoat 
he  had  discarded  —  that  was  all.  Hitherto  it  had 
hampered  and  held  down  this  flying,  vaporous  intel 
ligence  which  was  the  essence  of  his  being.  But  he 
had  cast  it  off,  and  now  the  great  adventure  had  be 
gun.  Where  it  would  end  he  could  not  tell.  He 
was  aware  only  of  the  immediate  destination  toward 
which  he  was  sweeping,  swift  as  light.  He  was  on 
his  way  to  Molly.  He  was  approaching  her.  Now 
he  could  see  her,  waiting. 

"  Believe !  "  he  cried  to  her  in  a  voice  that  echoed 
to  the  dome  of  heaven.  "Believe,  dear!  Oh,  be 
lieve!" 


266 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

THE   RECOVERY 

THROUGH  the  reaches  of  celestial  night  there 
came  to  him  the  reverberations  of  a  gong, 
loud  and  clattering,  yet  very  far  away.  Simultane 
ously  his  flight  became  less  smooth  and  swift.  The 
atmosphere  seemed  to  be  disturbed.  He  felt  his 
spirit  plunging  like  a  boat  driving  into  heavy  head 
seas.  His  progress  lessened.  There  came  the  feel 
ing  of  a  slow  lateral  drift;  then  of  easy  bumping,  as 
though  he  had  become  a  vessel  and  were  riding  the 
sand  bar  of  the  Milky  Way.  Then  in  the  darkness 
he  was  still.  He  had  come  to  anchor  somewhere. 

But  where  was  Molly  now?  If,  while  he  had 
soared  illimitable  space,  aeons  had  passed  —  or  even 
mere  centuries  of  time  —  she  was  of  course  no 
longer  living  on  the  old  earth.  Her  soul,  too,  must 
have  taken  flight.  She  must  be  here  somewhere; 
or  in  some  kindred  realm  where  finer  spirits  dwell, 
betweemvhiles. 

Ah,  if  only  she  were  indeed  in  this  place !  If  only 
267 


AFTER  THIRTY 

he  might  meet  her,  take  her  hand  and  be  her  mate 
once  more!  If  only  he  might  have  another  chance! 
Just  one  more  chance  with  Molly!  How  different 
things  would  be !  How  happy  he  would  make  her ! 

In  agony  he  prayed  that  he  might  have  her  back 
again.  Not  that  he  deserved  her.  Far  from  it! 
Measured  by  the  record  of  his  last  life  in  the  world 
his  deserts  were  of  the  smallest.  He  had  been  guilty 
of  a  series  of  egregious  follies.  True,  he  had  al 
ways  loved  Molly,  but  that  was  not  enough.  One 
must  deserve.  It  was  not  justice  that  he  craved  of 
the  divine  tribunal  —  only  mercy. 

A  great  terror  came  over  him.  Somehow  with 
out  seeing,  without  definitely  hearing,  without  be 
ing  able  to  move  or  speak,  he  felt  that  he  was  being 
tried.  Unintelligible  sounds  filled  the  air.  He,  the 
prisoner,  was  lying  on  his  back  helpless,  and  being 
roughly  handled.  His  arm  was  being  twisted. 
They  would  break  it  if  they  turned  it  any  more. 
The  pain  was  hideous.  He  wished  to  shriek,  but 
could  not  make  a  sound. 

Strangely  the  courtroom  seemed  to  be  within  his 
own  mind,  his  own  intelligence.  And  because  the 
trial  was  going  on  within  him  he  knew  everything 
about  it,  even  though  no  word  was  spoken.  The 

268 


THE  RECOVERY 

case  was  that  of  his  own  worthiness.  Was  he  fit  for 
a  step  up  in  the  great  scheme  of  progressive  living? 
Was  he  fit  to  go  on  —  with  Molly  ? 

Out  of  the  vagueness  witnesses  appeared.  All  of 
them  were  women.  He  knew  them  all,  and  they 
knew  him.  For  with  each  he  had  philandered. 
One  after  another  they  nodded  toward  him  without 
speaking,  as  though  to  say,  "  Yes,  that  is  he ;  "  and 
as  this  silent  evidence  piled  up  against  him  he  felt 
hope  sinking,  sinking,  sinking. 

Last  of  the  spectral  figures  came  Mrs.  Davenport, 
attired  as  Diana.  And  she,  instead  of  merely  recog 
nizing  him,  began  to  fit  an  arrow  to  her  bow.  She 
raised  the  bow,  took  aim.  The  arrow  was  for  him. 
He  was  seized  by  an  ague  of  terror.  The  courtroom 
trembled,  tottered,  then  seemed  to  explode,  its  frag 
ments  flying  off  like  flaming  meteors. 

And  now  once  more  he  found  himself  swiftly  tra 
versing  great  black  spaces,  impelled  by  an  awful,  in 
exorable,  unknown  force.  This  time,  however,  the 
sensation  was  that  of  falling.  He  was  a  lost  soul. 

As  he  dived  down  and  down,  turning  over,  right 
ing  himself,  turning  over  again,  like  a  body  pitched 
from  the  cornice  of  a  skyscraper,  he  found  his  voice 
and  uttered  a  despairing  cry : 

269 


AFTER  THIRTY 

*' Molly!     Molly!     Oh,  Molly!" 

And  then,  while  the  sound  of  that  wail  still 
echoed  in  his  ears,  he  heard  —  oh,  wonder  of  won 
ders!  —  the  voice  of  Molly  close  beside  him,  and  felt 
a  hand  seize  his. 

"  Yes,  Shelley.     I  am  here." 

"Is  it  really  you?" 

"  Yes,  dear."  He  felt  the  reassuring  pressure  of 
her  hand.  "  Everything  is  all  right.  Just  rest 
quietly." 

He  wished  to  clutch  her  hand  with  both  of  his, 
but  his  other  hand  would  not  move. 

"  Don't  let  go !     Don't  leave  me !  " 

"  I  won't.  Don't  worry,  dear.  I  '11  stay  right 
here." 

Now  he  was  no  longer  plunging  downward 
through  the  dark.  At  her  touch  the  hideous  flight 
had  been  arrested.  No  doubt  she  was  a  power,  up 
here.  Hand  in  hand  they  were  floating  easily  along. 
Peace  filled  his  heart. 

"  How  did  you  get  here  ?  "  he  managed  to  ask  her. 

"  Of  course  I  came  as  soon  as  I  heard." 

Of  course !     How  like  her ! 

"  Was  it  far  to  come?  "  he  murmured. 

"  It  seemed  far,"  she  said  softly. 
270 


He  wept  for  happiness. 

"  We  're  going  to  begin  all  over  again,"  he  told 
her.  "  They  've  given  me  another  chance.  You  're 
going  to  be  happy,  dear." 

"  I  am  happy  —  just  to  be  here  with  you." 

He  pressed  her  hand  again. 

"  God  is  merciful!  "  he  said. 

"  Yes,  dear,  He  is.     Now  try  to  rest." 

Still  clinging  to  her  hand  he  slept. 

Next  day  he  was  able  to  hear  all  about  it.  His 
arm  was  fractured,  his  body  bruised  and  his  scalp 
had  been  cut  by  glass.  Mrs.  Davenport  had  fared 
better,  escaping  with  hardly  more  than  a  severe  shak 
ing  up.  The  chauffeur  had  been  thrown  against  the 
steering  wheel  and  had  several  broken  ribs. 

"  It 's  a  miracle,"  he  said,  "  that  nobody  was 
killed." 

"  Yes,"  Molly  replied.  "  Mrs.  Davenport  feels 
that  she  owes  her  escape,  perhaps  even  her  life,  to 
you." 

The  subject  did  not  seem  to  interest  him. 

"  You  know  we  met  by  accident  out  there?  "  he 
asked  eagerly. 

"  Yes.     She  told  me." 

271 


AFTER  THIRTY 

"  I  could  n't  very  well  get  out  of  riding  in  with 
her,  Molly." 

"  Of  course  you  could  n't,  dear."  Then  she 
added :  "  She  wants  to  come  and  see  you  as  soon 
as  you  feel  well  enough." 

Two  or  three  days  later,  when  Molly  had  left  to 
see  about  his  broth,  the  floor  nurse  entered  his  neat 
little  cream-painted  room,  saying:  "A  visitor  to 
see  you,  Mr.  Wickett." 

Simultaneously  he  heard  voices  in  the  corridor 
outside.  He  recognized  the  voices.  One  was 
Molly's.  One  was  that  of  the  fashionable  surgeon 
in  whose  care  he  was.  The  third  was  Mrs.  Daven 
port's. 

He  heard  Molly  greet  the  sumptuous  lady  and 
introduce  the  surgeon  to  her.  Then  he  heard  the 
latter  say  in  his  most  ingratiating  manner :  "  I  rec 
ognized  Mrs.  Davenport  at  once.  I  've  often  seen 
her,  though  we  never  met  before." 

"  Oh,  I  've  known  you  by  sight  for  a  long  time, 
doctor,"  Mrs.  Davenport  replied  in  a  tone  that  made 
Wickett  think  of  dripping  sirup. 

Molly,  entering  the  room,  left  them  to  continue 
their  conversation  outside. 

272 


THE  RECOVERY 

"  I  'm  flattered  indeed !  "  Wickett  heard  the  sur 
geon  answer.  "  The  more  so  since  you  seem  never 
to  see  any  one." 

"  Ah,  but  I  do,  though !  "  came  her  voice.  "  For 
ages  I  've  had  a  name  of  my  own  for  you.  To  my 
self  I  always  call  you  '  the  man  that  wears  such 
pretty  scarfs.' ' 

Wickett  closed  his  eyes. 

"  Molly,"  he  said  hurriedly,  "  I  don't  feel  well 
enough  for  visitors  to-day." 


THE    END 


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